You Took All The Bad With You, Right?
by Castion-and-Clockwork
Summary: "You thought I'd stop with you? No don't be jealous. Playing our game was fun but Johnny's next. I want to see what will finally break John Watson." Its a race against the clock as John becomes the main pawn in a deadly game of finders keepers beyond the dead. W/ a little help can John find out Sherlock's secret & forgive all the liars or will he be shattered w/ the truth? Johnlock
1. An Encrypted Fall

**Hey there! I found myself getting anxious while watching ****_The Fall, _****so my sister gave me a word and told me to just write whatever came to mind. **

**The word was ****_"Cryptic"._**

**This is hopefully one of many, many chapters, filled with angst, love, hurt, comfort, and questions...without further to do, here you go, a little view into John's thoughts.**

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The terrible beauty in him was his eyes, like quicksilver melting just above the boiling point of life, oozing through the cracks of his personality and pooling at his feet. But all at once, they're hard as diamonds, a million glittering pieces all foxishly deceiving at bending the light of the truth, distorting it just enough so its wholly believable, but dark as the night on which ravens take flight. And those words on his lips, those were his daggers, his weapons; he didn't need the gun in his pocket to shoot us down, not when his tongue was cutting at us with each dart he spat. Disbelievingly, I try to catch his gaze and wonder at the colors iridescently swirling like a flicker of smoke, so alive with a shot of drug, a pull of pain that he's not really _here_, but hasn't passed over to _ther_e either.

And as he stalks about, all arrogance in his long legs and fluid understanding as he squares his shoulders, you'd think he was preening for the second coming, for some rapturous wing of flight to gust him above us. Another dose of reality hits him like a fatal fall, like the loss of a limb, sharp and quick followed by a numbing, tingling sensation, like a phantom trickling of life dripping saline straight from his veins.

I would worry, because how long could this lucky streak run, how many strings has he cut, how any bridges has he set fire too while still calling down to the watery graves, until he is finally painted Lucifer black, until the ground splits open and devours him in its vicious surreptitious maw. But whenever I set my eyes on him he morphs into some indispensable being and shows me that he must have no limits, there is no stopping him. I've never seen him fail, would hate to see him crash.

He must have been born with those unreadable, cautious eyes that literate volumes of knowledge, and his quick, long fingered hands that hold the world. He walks with sure, hurried feet that have passed over the contents of creation, and speaks with a mouth that has twisted its way through the best parts of lies and the hateful scorns of truths, and he squares shoulders that have leveled the foundations of my world. But most of all, he hides a soul that is cut open, flayed and unraveling as people try and pull him apart at his very seams, and his back is bear, not a sole feather, bone, or curve of an angel's wing, and as he takes his last breath, with my name just a whisper there, set on his lips, there isn't a single shred of a tear collecting in his eye, it's just rain, and no matter what I've done for him, no matter what I've said, no matter my belief that he's never deceived me, no matter that he was a hero all along, he never did grow any wings, and I…

And_ I..._

I watched _as he_…..

In the end, I couldn't ever really read a damned thing in that dead, cryptic man.

**Hope this little taste will sate all of you until I update the next chapter. :) Is there anything ya'll want to see? I'd love feedback on where you guys hopes this go...**


	2. I'll Show You Burn

**Author's Note: Quite a few of you have read, and a handful liked it, so here's the next chapter. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own a thing. **

**Warnings: Does poor John having a hard time coping count as a warning? Cause that's all this is. Flashbacks, Sherlock, Irene, and a few book titles. **

**Other than that, enjoy my wonderful readers! :) **

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John sat with his face in his hands, as if to stop himself from crumbling under the stagnant weight of the silence in the flat. He couldn't bare the sight of the piles of books that had scattered in his drunken stupor last night, couldn't stand the glare of the papers from the few cases near the end that he had yet to write up on the blog. But most of all, he couldn't will away the awful, empty, dismal abyss that was eating a hole in Baker Street, threatening to press the walls together, consume the floor boards, and snap poor John Watson in two.

As if John wasn't already torn to pieces.

He gave a shuddering sob, lips wet and cheeks rubbed raw as he curled in on himself and tried the wish away everything. Let the flat implode on itself, swallow him with it, and leave the rubble to lay for all eternity, a scar on London's surreptitious spine so everyone knows that when Sherlock Holmes fell, he took whole worlds with him.

But with a painful throb, John's leg reminded him to stand and face this like a man, and he finally felt himself choke out his final cry before he slowly stretched his wretched limb, and glued himself back together with a long sigh.

'All this crying is nonsense; it's not going to change a damned thing.' He thought bitterly as he hobbled his way to the wreck of paperbacks in the corner, the bookshelf too bloated to accept them. 'And what the hell am I supposed to do with all of these?' The novels had been salvaged from one of many small shops that skirted around the city that collected pocket change in exchange for knickknacks and faded antiques. A vast majority of the pages were brittle and yellowed, spines sturdy yet crinkled from over use, some of the covers torn off, but Sherlock had insisted he needed them. He'd scavenge the aisles of intermixed wonders, the old shop keeper paying no mind as he unshelved each, one at a time, and browsed the text. Without waning he'd hand the book to John and move to the next wordlessly. What he was searching for, John had not a clue, because the books were varied in subject, author, and thickness. And to John's surprise many of them where fictional stories, ones about secret spies, or crafty assassins, or courtier life, and some about murder, others romance, and sometimes biological fantasy.

"He'd spend an entire afternoon perusing the books and after we both had an armful, he'd walk to the counter and expect me to pay, the great git." He shook his head fondly, even though his hushed words had an agonizing bite to them. "And I'd do it of course. There was just no saying no to him." He rolled his shoulders and started boxing the books away carefully, feeling as though he was sealing away a piece of his best friend. Titles like _"Jurassic Park, The Other Boleyn Girl, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo," _were on top, followed by a row of Stephen King's greatest works in hardback. Those were dog eared profusely, and if John had cared to open them, he'd see where Sherlock had highlighted and scribbled notes in the margins. Next came a Shakespeare playbook, _"Hamlet", _then "_Beowulf", _and not too much to John's surprise, a rather well kept copy of_ "50 Shades of Grey." _

With a croaked chuckle, he remembered how it ended up there, when Irene had shown up at their flat a little over a month ago.

They'd just been out eating at a small café down the street, and the candle light had lit Sherlock's eyes in a way John had never noticed before, and the waitress assumed they were on a date, and surprisingly enough John didn't even correct her. As they had stumbled out of the cab, a mess of laughter and boisterous conversation, he had grabbed Sherlock's hand with a confident smile and climbed the stairs, ready to kiss the man he had been denying for years, when he opened the door and froze.

There she was, sitting in John's comfortable chair, one leg crossed over the other as if she belonged there, her attention disrupted from the book in her grasp as she marked her page and closed it with a keen smirk.

"Fun night boys?" She asked sweet enough, her eye brow rose as she noticed their linked hands, Sherlock's mussed curls, and John's face burning with embarrassment. Her presence seemed to sober Sherlock, since he pulled from John a bit roughly, straitened the lapels of his jacket and pointed to the door.

"Get out." He ordered darkly, as he stood his ground against The Woman.

Her mouth parted in a look of mock disdain, contradicting with the softening gaze of her eyes, locked on the detective now. "Such rudeness, even after I came all the way here to give you_ information_." She uncrossed her legs and the rustle of her jeans and the click of her heels as they settled on the floor echoed in the utter stillness of the room.

"I don't need anything from you. We are even, now get out of _John's_ chair and leave before I force you."

"Ooh, _force me_? Would you, darling?" Her glittery laugh had woken John up at the time, as the cogs in his brain finally caught up.

"That's _my_ jumper!" He cried accusingly with a finger jabbing in her direction. Sherlock rolled his eyes and strode to her, reaching out just as she caught his wrist, his fingers giving a twitch as she flashed a warning in her dark eyes.

"_Ah ah ah_," Irene tsked in a breathy tone, "I don't have anything on underneath it, and we wouldn't want your poor doctor to feint from the sight of a real woman after all these weeks of being cooped up with _you._" Her voice was lilted playfully as her fingers loosened, and finally petted Sherlock's hand away as he yielded. "Sorry Johnny, I'm going to have to talk to your boyfriend alone," her eyes slid serpent like towards the poor doctor who was glued to the spot. "And don't worry, I'll wash and give this back."

But John had missed the victorious expression on her face as he turned out the door and trudged down the stairs, beyond livid.

When he had come home later that night, head swimming in alcohol and jealousy being pressed down to the roiling pits of his stomach, he found Sherlock asleep in his chair, John's jumper draped over him as a makeshift blanket. On the table was the book, who's inside cover read _"There's no safety word in his game, so tread carefully. Maybe this book will open your eyes to the possibilities. You like power play don't you darling? With love, Irene Adler."_

Her cursive signature was neat and slightly slanted, a lipstick stain marking the end.

That had been the last time John had seen her.

He had never asked what Irene had come to tell the detective and Sherlock never mentioned a word about it after. She hadn't come to the funeral, and for that, John was secretively and selfishly happy.

Then, without a bat of an eye lash, he threw the book into the fireplace, and relished the curling pages blackening in the mouth of the flames. The title was engulfed as a log split and crackled, taking the book deeper into the furnace, and the last thing John saw was that wicked woman's handwriting being erased by the smolder, her kiss print fading to a hell like red, and finally nothing but ash.

'Good riddance.'

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**Sigh. I've always had the idea that Sherlock would hoard books, because, look at the flat, its a filthy mess. And don't worry, the next chapters give reasons to Irene's visit, the books, and where on Earth Sherlock Holmes is. :) **

**I would love to see a review, or a simple hello to show that I'm not quite wasting my time writing for you guys. :) **

**And if any of you have prompts for me to fill, just send me a message! I'll write close to anything, so don't be afraid to ask! **

**Hugs and cookies for all of you!**

**-Castion and Clockwork**


	3. Leave, Because Alone is All I Have

**Welcome back my wonderful audience! Just wanted to apologize for the wait! Hope you guys are still interested in the story! Something BIG is coming soon...**

**Warnings: None. Unless drugged!Sherlock, angry!depressed!John and apologetic!Mycroft are fair warnings. **

**Also, Mary Mortenson makes an appearance. No, her and John will not be getting together. Yes, she does have a crush on him. **

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Mycroft rarely pitied anyone, he had always lived his life with blinders on and nose held high, but looking down at the broken pieces of his only brother, and in a subtle way, maybe his only child, he couldn't help but feel the spark of something cold, aching, and to the older Holmes, sickeningly weak.

"What would Mummy say?" he asks in a small voice, leaning to look over the dark abyss and peer at Sherlock from the surface of reality. Poor Sherlock laid there stretched on the carpet, his curls bloodied and slicked to his forehead, covering one of his marble eyes, the other wincing closed as Mycroft's words shattered on his ears. His arms were spindly and grasping out at nothing in front of him, legs looking broken and tangled as Sherlock stretched half awake and rolled one of his cobalt, melted eyes up at his brother, resurfacing from drowning in the drug.

His lips parted, busted and bruised, but his voice crackled like static, mangling the words. "I fell to my death and-" he coughed weakly, his shoulders crunching in and crumbling his chest, "and that's all you can say?" he drew in an uneven breath, closing his eyes uncoordinatedly.

Mycroft gave a derogative snort and shook his head slowly, disapprovingly, just like Father used to. "Are you ever going to stop playing the victim Sherlock? Is that ever going to tire you out enough that you grow up and finally see that the entire world doesn't shift its balance based on every action you do." He watched as Sherlock tipped back into his mind palace, eyes unfocused as he rolled with another hacking cough. Mycroft lifted his umbrella in a sure hand and brushed the inky curls from his baby brother's face with the silver tip. He noted the deep cut that nicked the angle of his dark cheek, lips parted and slightly swollen as he drew another labored breath, the air catching in his throat and choking on the bobbing adam's apple as he came crashing back into the world.

'_Locked out of his Mind Palace?'_ the elder wondered, but didn't comment. Instead, he steeled himself and swallowed the growl of words that were rising protectively in him.

Mycroft drew his eye brows down in something so close to sympathy that Sherlock wrote it off as drug hallucinations, and finally spoke in the silence of the house. "I know that life has been difficult, Sherlock, I know I wasn't the best parental figure to you and I _resent_ myself for that. But you have to stop-"

"I liked you better as a _brother_ than a _parent_." And Sherlock sounded so sincere in is childish truth that Mycroft's breath hitched as he caught the rest of his sentence on his tongue and swallowed shallowly. He watched as Sherlock curled in on himself and gave a weak shuddering sob, his pained cries too much to bear as Mycroft turned away fully this time.

His footsteps were hallow and empty as they passed over the hardwood, the distance gouged between the brothers like a great canyon, one with a rickety bridge swaying over a shadowed, black void of absolute nothingness. And neither could brave a walk across to the other.

"Did you know?" Sherlock asked darkly when Mycroft reached the door, his prim, posh form stilling in reply. "Did you know what he would do? To me?" The words were carried on barely a whisper, just smoke from between his lips as he coaxed enough energy to raise himself up on shaky elbows, his head looking heavy to hold on the thin column of his neck, skin sunken over his collar bones, lips dry, chapped, tongue slowly wetting them as Sherlock's eyes shadowed, waiting for the retaliation.

But the longer he willed himself to stare at Mycroft's back, the more he just read the great fall of Mycroft Holmes.

Hasn't slept in three days, phone left unanswered, fired Anthea, is letting Greg stay in the guest room, saw John yesterday, no, no, **stop,** don't go _there_, not _now-_

"Did. You. _Know_?" He ground out in a hot frustrated noise, eyes narrowed to dragon slits as he fisted the plush carpet on the rug in his hands.

Mycroft's shoulders fell forward weakly, solemnly bowed his head. "Never." He replied, not brave enough to look his brother in the eye. "Had I known, I would have dealt with him before this unraveled." He heard Sherlock scoff, shifting with a crinkle of his filthy, bloodied clothes. "I'm _sorry_-"

"Leave." The detective bit through his closed teeth, his anger and tears burning a hole in his chest and rising in his throat like a stoked fire, his anger roiling now as he felt himself begin to shiver with the raw electricity of the truth.

"I never meant for him to get so close, I never thought-"

"Just leave." He chided darkly, resolved it seemed as Mycroft closed the door neatly behind himself, and pretended not to hear the shattering of the frail world Sherlock had carefully spun around himself for almost 30 years.

**-VV-**

"John, you need to do something with all this stuff. Becoming a hoarder isn't going to make the process go any smoother, not with all of his junk just collecting dust." Mary Mortenson drew a heavy sigh and collected anther stack of papers in her arms.

"Put that down, I still need to blog those." He chastised with a pointed finger and steeled as he saw Mary roll her eyes.

"You haven't typed a damned thing since he died-"

"Stop." John commanded, "Don't do this." he cautioned, but Mary just advanced, dropping the sheaves of paper into Sherlock's old chair, the pages shuffling and spilling onto the floor in a mess.

"Don't do _what_ John? Acknowledge the _truth_? He's gone, John, **gone**. Ellen said that you have to come to terms with this in order to get better. You don't need to keep his things anymore, you don't need them!" Her usually sweet voice rose as they entered the same argument for the countless time.

John squared his shoulders and angrily pulled his lips into a deep set frown, one that creased a few age lines on his forehead beneath his golden bangs that had grown a bit shaggy in his self-neglect. "They're _our _things, Mary, mine and his. If I want to keep them, I will."

She turned back round to look at the rest of the flat, every single item glaring at her like a demon. Ever since she met John Watson in her therapy class she thought she would be able to help him. Bolster him and keep his mind on the track to recovery, but it was like John didn't believe Sherlock was gone. Like John just thought he had popped out for a run to Tesco and would be back before sunset. Why couldn't he see that keeping his possessions weren't doing anything but carving his despair even further? Why couldn't he see how much she wanted to catch him smile just once, just once like he was in the few pictures Mrs. Hudson kept on the wall down stairs?

"You don't even play the violin!" She accused hashly as she reached for the instrument, its initials _**SH**_ churning her stomach. But John slapped her hand away and grabbed the case, looking bewildered and ashamed as he held it to his chest.

"Just leave, you don't _understand_!" He yelled, getting angry now, and not like how Sherlock had gotten him angry, but like how war and unfairness and pain had gotten him angry, downright bitter now, as he watched Mary shrink at his tone, nursing her hand.

But her eyes locked on his, liquid and melting with tears as dark as tropical forests as she sniffed back a memory, of one before all of this unspoken fear.

"_I_ don't _understand_? John, I held my husband's hand and stayed at his bedside for three years as he slept in a coma, and then had to finally give up the fight. I watched him slip away through my own fingers and _you_ have the _nerve_ to tell me I don't understand what it's like to wake up every morning and roll over to **emptiness**, or to look across the table and see just a chair stair back, or flip through photo albums and see a man who could have easily been a _figment of my own imagination_ because he's _simply no longer here anymore!_?" Mary's accusing screams were shrill and grating, and so heavy with conviction that she slumped into John's chair with her head in her hands as she cried out her frustrations.

But John's lividness didn't dissipate.

"At least you had him." He motioned to her hand. "Your ring finger is still white from where the band laid, and your knuckle is red from working it off your finger every time you see me. You still wear it, still think of him and that's ok. At least you two were given the chance. Because what you don't know is that I sat right there," he pointed to Mary in his chair, his eyes softening, voice cracked and fraying at the edges, "and watched my entire world crumble beneath the lie of a madman. And then," his tongue rolled over is lips as he tipped his head back and quelled tears away by closing his eyes, "I watched as the only thing I had close to family told me everything I knew was a lie and then _he jumped_. I watched as he…as he…" John's face crumpled into a tearless wreck, one more of denial and rage than the usual sadness, and it scared Mary.

"I'm so sorry John, I didn't know." her hand came out to comfort him, but he turned away, cradling the violin close as he shook his head.

"Just go." He turned his back to her, disgusted with himself, nausea sweeping up in him and stretching his insides. John could see that Mary was angry with him for catching her still thinking of her husband; even after she had said countless times said she had gotten over it. That wasn't what bothered John. What bothered him was that she didn't see her own suffering and how she was lying to herself. Even as her subconscious sought comfort in old habits, she's denied her own grieving.

For once, he saw why Sherlock constantly spoke out people's personal deductions. He was liberating them from society's conformity. Letting them see the awful truth of themselves through a stranger's unbiased eye. It felt like a sweet epiphany. It made him violently ill.

And for once Mary didn't argue, just picked up her jacket from the coat hook and readied to leave. "See you tomorrow in class." She called over her shoulder and hoped to hear at least a halfhearted confirmation. Or even a snide remark. But as the sound of retching and shuddering, wet coughing in the bathroom answered, she closed the door and prayed this wouldn't be the second man she'd see slip into oblivion.

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**Soooo...any thoughts? Are you guys excited about the story? Any ideas on where this should go? Anyone still reading this? Shoot me a message, leave a review to tell me what you think, or just say HI! I simply want to make sure I'm not just writing rap and clogging up Fanfiction.**

**I also adore feedback and would like to know any thoughts or ideas from you lovely readers and writers. :) **

***Next chapter is Sherlock and his locked Mind Palace, his old flame the Woman, and a maybe, not so dead rival, one Mr. Moriarty.* **

**Hugs and cookies,**

**Castion and Clockwork**

**P.S. If you don't review, I might kill off John...**

**KIDDING!**

**Or am I? D:**


	4. There is No Death, Just Frustration

**So ya'll have spoken, and it's been decided that I ****can't**** kill off John. I mean I literally****_ can't_****, I adore John too much! So here's the next chapter, with an idea that's been rolling round my head for a few days now. Hope you enjoy! **

**Warnings: Scheming!Irene, Emotional!Mycroft, and Frustrated!Broken!Sherlock. I wouldn't say it's OOC, but it may slightly deviate from the cold, uncaring character that we usually see in the Holmes' brothers. **

**Now ENJOY!**

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The Holmes' Estate was immense and extremely lavish, spared no expense as it was handed down from heir to heir, with the older members moving to old country homes to live out the last of their quieter years, away from the government and scandals. Every hall and room was decked in the finest furniture; Italian and French paintings hung carefully and dusted every other week, and half a million clocks in a rainbow of sizes, shapes and chimes throughout the home.

"What's the _point_ of all of them?" A younger Sherlock had asked once in bitterness as they all rang out, the two boys turning a corner and disappearing into Mycroft's new office, his 21st birthday present.

"Father fancies being punctual." Mycroft answered as if it was elementary. "And numerous clocks achieve that purpose. Besides, clocks are in fashion, and you know Mummy has to keep up with the times." Sherlock glared at him for the slipped pun, and scoffed as Mycroft sat behind the desk. "What do you think, brother dear? Do I look ready to take Father's place?"

And Mycroft had waited for Sherlock to turn and admire how grown up and mature he was, the power he would now have since he'd come into the inheritance and would have more say in family affairs. But as he watched his brother examine him, he caught Sherlock looking as if he was seeing Mycroft for the first time in ages, and Mycroft couldn't miss the clear disgust in his brother's eyes, the angry flare of his eye brows, and the meanness of his mouth as he straightened his lapels and slid on an opaque mask of geniality.

"You look old and bored." Sherlock chided, turning his attention to the lamp and clicking it on, its new light casting shadows against the dim room. "It suits you well."

Mycroft slipped those memories back into their folder and slid them into their bookcase, exiting his own Mind Palace as he turned the key in the lock to his office, heaving an annoyed sigh as he absently let the door click closed behind him.

"I'm beginning to think I should invest my time into performing an exorcism. There seems to be an infestation of specters in my house." He joked dryly to the darkness, hearing a small, glittery laugh from the chair, not even wincing as a dainty hand pulled the chord of the lamp, illuminating the room.

"Who ya gonna call? _Ghostbusters_?" Irene Adler answered, laughing again and smiling like a fox up at Mycroft as he towered over her. "Boo."

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Miss Adler?" Ignoring her reference, he sat across from her, stone still and imposing as usual in his best cut suit, tie still knotted round his throat. "It's not every day I learn the Grim Reaper is giving back souls for free."

"_Free?_ Oh sweetheart, if you think Sherlock and I aren't in debt from being given a second chance then you're duller than I thought." Her half smile was taunting and dashed in red lip stick, dark curls brushing her bare shoulders as she leaned forward and rested her elbows on the table. He noticed that her finger nails were cut short and rounded, '_A new female lover in the picture', _a shimmer of gold peaking from the waterfall of hair, expensive earrings, '_and a man as well'_ with a dark hourglass dress that drew a deadly curve down her breast for a mouthwatering sight. '_Hoping to see Sherlock.'_ He could tell that from the way the skin under her eyes tightened just a twitch when she mentioned his name, a shadow of guilt, or hurt, or loneliness darkening them for just the gasp of a second before her tone had faded to sweet sarcasm. She wasn't the open book most women were, and her beauty was expensive and breath taking, he would admit it.

But in all her glamour and get up, Mycroft couldn't feel anything but _revulsion_ towards her.

Irene let him peruse what he could from her, before straightening in the chair and dipping her head down a bit, tucking it to the side as she lowered her bright eyes in submission. "Can't a girl just visit an old friend? I don't bite. _Honest_." She gave a sweet smile and looked up through her thick lashes. "Tea?" She asked, gesturing to the pot on the table. "I bet you take your tea like you take your men, Earl _grey and hot, _like that new Detective Inspector?"

"No thank you." He declined, narrowing his eyes as he watched her fill his ivory cup anyway, stirring in two cubes of sugars before tending to her own, adding three small nods of cream from the pitcher. "Why have you come to see him?" Mycroft asked in the silence, mask frozen and blank as Irene lifted her cup to her lips and sipped long and thoughtful. The steam reddened the tip of her nose and brightened her cheeks and as she answered, Mycroft found himself staring at the crimson kiss print on the lip of the china.

"We had a talk a few months ago. And now I'm coming to collect my payment." She didn't meet his glare as she sliced herself a thick piece of bread from the loaf she had sitting on the breakfast tray with the knife pulled from her garter strapped to her thigh, taking precious care in slathering it with butter.

"I'll pay off any withstanding debt he may owe you-"

"Oh but this isn't a subject of money, Mycroft." She took a bite, chewing slowly and giving a soft, fluttery moan before she swallowed. "Are you sure you don't want breakfast dear? It's not poisoned, see?" She made a show out of finishing the bread and ending with a soft swig of tea. "Or maybe you believe I just have the antidote for whatever it is, hmm?" Her sick, sexy smile grew wan as she knitted her fingers together and rested her chin on their bridge, leaning across the table and _really looking_ at her opponent for the first time. "_Clever boy_." She rewarded darkly, twisting her lips and baring her teeth as she spoke low. "I wonder why Moriarty doesn't just play games with _you_."

Mycroft drew in a long, measured breath, trying to desensitize himself as she spoke about Jim Moriarty. "Leave." He cautioned as all of the cards fell into place and he understood where this was headed.

"Not until I talk to the _Virgin_." Irene's soft lilted words were sarcastic and she spoke them with such a cruel smile that Mycroft couldn't quell the awful torrent of emotions hacking at the dam of his façade. Suddenly, he stood from his chair and his fist struck the table, jostling the breakfast tray and spilling the dregs of Irene's tea.

"_Get out_!" he barked, face carved in anger, eyes blazing as he jabbed a finger at the door and stood towering over her, shoulders back, a few slicked bangs falling from their neat style as he bellowed again. "_**I said go**_!"

Fear flashed in Irene, evolving into something selfish and livid. "I _will _see him, Mycroft Holmes, if not today, then later. My employers aren't patient, and if I won't see him, then _he'll_ just come to _me_." And before Mycroft could raise his hand to strike her like he had seen his Father do in many a case when their mother had been disrespectful, Irene had rose up and strutted out of the door, her figure disappearing down the stairs. It wasn't until he heard the slam of the door that he slumped back into his chair, boneless, weeping harder than he could ever remember.

The shuffling of socked feet muffled through the room a short while later, after Mycroft had let go of all that useless weakness, and a bleary voice, still sleep laden, called out, "Crucified Christ, what is with all that yelling, its barely 7:30 in the morning-" the steps stopped as the man reached the carpeted office. "_Mycroft?_" He asked in almost a whisper, the elder Holmes's not paying any mind, his eyes looking exhausted and rubbed red from crying. Now he was sitting primly, almost obligingly composed before Greg, who could tell that beneath the surface there was an awful war tearing him apart at his very seams, something darker than anger and more vicious than loathing battling under his skin, beating at his mind. One final tear beaded on his cheek and he moved solemnly to wipe it away but was interrupted as the DI's rough hands grabbed his. "Jesus, Mycroft, what's wrong? Who was here?" Lestrade, in his suddenly awakened state sounded one part pissed off, two parts terrified.

Mycroft coughed out a sob and tried to stint his oncoming cries, shaking his head defiantly and leaning his cheek to Greg's shoulder as he tried to hush him with small whispers of '_its ok, everything's fine.'_

**-VV-**

Sherlock was startled from his day dreams by the harsh slam of a door, jerking up and wincing as he rolled on his back. 'She's angered the wrong Holmes.' He thought off handedly, and tried again to cut the world away, silencing the hum of the fan above him, the creak of the house as it settled, the tick, tick chime of the half hour from the grandfather clock, and block out the horrid noises of wreckage and loneliness of his brother's guilt a few doors down.

But his brain wouldn't cooperate, wouldn't let him in as he tried jamming the key into the brass knob of his Mind Palace. "Open_, damn it_."

He jiggled the lock, scrunching his face in frustration as he twisted the handle and finally gave up, pounding on the door desperately. "Please! Please, just let me in!" He felt the beginnings of tears strain in the back of his throat, hot and thick as he shook his head, slipping to his knees. "You _have_ to open up." He keened brokenly, "Please, _please_." His eyes were glassy as he begged, weakly scratching at the white wood of the door as if to dig his way into his Palace.

This didn't make sense. It was still _his mind_; there was no possible way to simply be _locked out_. But as he found himself crumpled to his knees on the porch, peering up at the door with its brass knob of a scowling mouth and hateful looking knocker glaring down at him, Sherlock felt painful panic spreading in him, the mania blooming as he struggled to breathe again.

_Sick._ He felt God awful, so drowsy from the drug, _wrecked _and _spent _and _raw_ as reality trickled back, forcing him to take a gulp of air as he was launched from his mind and back to choking in the dense, dark, dismal room around him.

He moaned in a deep, pained way, feeling his stomach lurch and churn as his brain shirked smaller and smaller into itself, spiteful as it dared him to try and retreat again. His body repulsed the thought of sleeping anymore, his very marrow trembling as he tried to untangle himself from his constricting bed sheets. The sweat was sticky, searing him as he thrashed and finally hit the floor in his struggle.

"John!" He yelled out in panic, waiting for the soothing light of the hall to spill under the door and for dearest doctor to come to his rescue as usual. "JAWN!"

But then, he opened his eyes and noticed that the wall paper wasn't the plain color of his room at Baker Street and the sheets folded around him stank musty and faintly like detergent. These weren't smells of home, and it hit him like a cold, drenching monsoon that John wasn't going to come through the door to comfort him, he wouldn't be pulled against the broad chest and breath in the warmth of sleep and Chamomile tea that encompassed John. He was alone in the dark, left here in his old room at the Holmes' Estate where he had spent many a terrible and wretched childhood day in solitary as well, and he couldn't help but dissolve in a dry heave of choked sobs, panting for John in a low, given up whisper.

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**So my beautiful readers? I know a few of you have questions about what has happened, but don't worry, its supposed to be slightly secretive and confusing, the whole story hasn't been told yet. But it will unfold. :) **

**I would like to thank (and bake cookie's for) all of you that have favorited this, followed this, and have commented. Your ideas have been mulled over and one of them I'll be using, thank you guests. :) I adore you guys, please continue to read, and I want to hear what you think! Any ideas of what you want to happen? What you want to see? This story needs more...? You fill in the blank and tell me!**

**Next chapter is some of John's perspective, Colonel Sebastian, and more mystery about dearest changeable Jim. **

**Your writer and loyal author,**

**Castion and Clockwork**

**P.S. Review please, so I know I'm not wasting my time with an awful, dead end story. **


	5. So Three Enemies Walk Into A Bar

**So for whatever reason, while washing dishes, this scene popped in and would stop until I typed it out. Then one page turned to five and I was wondering where on Earth all this was going! I want to personally thank (and reward) everyone who has added this to their watches and faves, and a special hug for those who reviewed! :) **

**Warnings: Slight Mormor mentions, drinking, smoking, and Irene. I personally don't think these are real warnings, but just incase a few of you don't want to read those things, there's the warning. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything! Not the characters, not the actors, not the show, nothing! The only thing I do is come up with a plot and write it so my lovely readers enjoy the torture. :)**

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The scent of darkness permeated the flat, thick and suffocating with the lowliness and emptiness of it, of living without Sherlock. But it was a regular, almost comforting void now, passing from the insufferable dusk and setting sun to the light of dawn splitting open the night and shattering nightmares with the search of an alarm clock.

The routine was healthy, sturdy, and to Ella, the final step towards moving past Sherlock's suicide. She would have rather seen him dating, or at least looking at potential partners, but she encouraged his tiny steps forward.

"Do what feels comfortable to you, John. And remember, imperfect progress is still progress." John had nodded at her slowly spoken words, and left feeling a little bit lighter. He had even gone and dropped off a bag of clothes and a few boxes of books at the thrift shop, only the few things he could part with of Sherlock's but it was something. Wasn't it?

But staring at the ceiling now, breathing in the dry darkness, all he could do was wait.

For something.

Something to happen.

Anything really. Because all of those years living with Sherlock had sharpened his consciousness to always be ready to jump up and go. The detective would have said they would be left over senses of protectiveness and reactiveness from the War, but John knew better. It was Sherlock's sudden texts during work, yells for him at night to rescue him from a drug induced panic, and the shouts of 'A triple homicide, John, grab my coat, we have to catch a train to Dublin!' that kept John feeling part of a bigger picture than his nine to five job, tea times, and his comfy chair.

And no matter how much time had passed, John's body was still circumventing as if Sherlock needed him ready at any given moment. It had John on edge, and for the sixth night in a row, he had to lock himself in his room to stop himself from checking to make sure Sherlock was ok in his room.

The first time he had tip toed is way into the room and slid beneath the stark cold sheets, reaching for the other side of the bed and asking "Are you ok?" John had scared himself stiff when he noticed his exhausted brain had laid back and ignored the blatant obvious fact that this room in Baker Street had been empty for three weeks. He'd laid there silent, not ready to cry again, and simply pulled the duvet over him so he wouldn't have to feel the outside world judging him, the pictures of them in the room seeming to taunt at him for being weak.

"Maybe a nightcap is what I need…there's that bar down the street, open 24/7..." he spoke softly to the open air, not moving just yet as he thought of how his sister's divorce had led to her drunkenness and anger, and how his father would become so ugly in his anger after a pint down at the pub, but as he felt his body reanimate on auto pilot and redress himself, he couldn't care about anything else but the burn of a good scotch, and the re-stitching, no matter how sloppy, of his open, aching, heart wound.

**-VV-**

"Keep 'em coming barkeep." Sebastian Moran waved with a sly smile, catching a tumbler the man slid his way, dousing it back without spilling a drop of the liquid amber. He felt the faint buzz start to massage the back of his skull, knowing the drinks were finally fading his sobriety.

At his elbow, another tumbler tapped him, the hand of a woman pressing it as she sat astride the barstool next to him. "Can I buy you a drink stranger?" She asked with the confidence of a million dollars, flashing a grin that stopped his heart.

"Whose money are you payin' with? Cause you know Jim hates seeing bar tabs on his card." Moran scolded as he sipped on the offered drink, wincing at the slightly fruity taste, but finishing it off with a smirk.

"I have men other than Jim wanting to keep me in their hands, honey; I could have anything I want from anybody." With a nonchalant flip of her luscious curls, she gave the stranger behind her a slow wink, the man calling for the bartended to treat her to a drink.

"One '_screaming orgasm' _for me, please." She batted her eyelashes fondly to the man as he turned to make her drink, thanking the stranger behind her with her business card and a blown kiss.

"I wish it was that easy for me, just ask and receive." Sebastian chuckle lustily, glancing at her appreciatively.

"Told you I'd give a discount for you, Soldier." Irene's voice was so sweet that she sounded sincere, and for a second, her professional flare had diminished and she just looked like a woman asking for a good time. "But I don't do gun play." She taunted, watching as the Coronal flinched and spun away from her. "Hey, hey joking. Can't believe you still have a soft spot for Jim, even after all the shit he put you through." Irene lavished a smile as her dink was handed to her and she thanked the bartender. "I've endured a lot less for a lot more, yet you just played lap dog ad never asked for a thing." Irene preened slightly as she heard him growl, watching with interest as the muscles in his shoulders tensed and straightened, facing her again in a flash.

"It's not a _soft spot_-"

"Chink in the armor, whatever, the fact is, you would have killed your own brother if Jim had asked it, and for what in return? A hot and heavy night that ends in scars and bloodied sheets?" she mocked as the light in her eyes dimmed and her lips sipped slowly on her drink. "You got close enough to kill him and yet you held him lovingly, as if he didn't own your ass like a slave master and your life like a God." She was becoming bitingly black with her words, her eyes half lidded and dreamlike as if she was remembering an awful night a life time ago.

The lull of the bar was gentle with conversation as the patrons mostly slinked and stumbled out, and for a few moments, Moran thought in the silence. Maybe, if he was to listen hard enough, he could hear the soft voice of a younger, happier Irene blossoming in the memories before being swallowed with reality. It wasn't until she finished her drink that Moran spoke to interrupt as she had parted her lips.

"Jim gave me purpose." He rolled the seriousness from his shoulders, "Before him, I was just a young gun for hire, with a list of enemies tattooed in blood weighing over my head. Drug lords, cheating wives, gangs, as long as I was getting paid, I didn't care who I worked for or who I took out. But Jim-" A breath caught in his throat as he remembered the first time James Moriarty had come strutting down the alley. He had passed by the prostitutes without a sideways glance, ignored the junkies slinking out of the dark hoping he was a dealer. His eyes were deep and dark as space, the stars glittering beneath his well-trimmed eye brows as he approached, gaze locked on Sebastian. "He was good people. Three piece suit that cost more than my education, the mien that he owned the world and therefore I had to do his bidding, a smile that lit the shadows of the streets. He was unbelievable. He _was_ God like."

"I hear you're worth a _pretty penny_, quite the help with that steady aim of yours." Jim had praised almost lovingly, peering into the face of the youth, looking up at him with confidence and wonder.

Sebastian just clicked the carton of cigarettes out on his palm and took one between his smiling lips. "What can I do for you, Sir?" He heard Jim purr in approval at the title, the man's hands rustling through his pocket and opening the lighter with the flair of a smirk, its flame casting beautiful shadows on his face as Moran leaned close and drew in a breath, watching as the end of is cig glowed bright red, reflecting in Jim's eyes.

"I have a proposition for you Coronal Sebastian Moran-"

"I'm a very busy man," he interrupted, wondering how this stranger had gotten his full name. He blew a smoke ring into Jim's face cavalierly, grinning wolfishly. "And I'm not cheap." Moran warned, hoping his face didn't betray the fear flushing in him in heated plumes. Suddenly, he felt Jim's strong forearm pressing up into his windpipe, the body beneath the suit pressing him straight up against the concrete wall, his cigarette forgotten on the ground. The deep, intergalactic eyes were aflame with power, smile bent and twisted as he glared up at Moran, whispering lowly.

"This is an offer you _can't_ refuse."

"It always starts like that, huh?" Irene interrupted his story, a new drink passing from her to him solemnly. "We're dragged through the filth of this world and an angel in a suit comes to our rescue." She scoffed, and stirred the ice in her glass absently. Irene sighed. "No one told you the devil wears Westwood, huh?" Moran shook his head and continued after a swig.

"But as he relaxed against me, I saw a flash of good in him, just a sliver of a man that didn't want to see the streets swallow someone whose potential was going to waste. He gave me a contract; I'd be his body guard and right hand gun, and in exchange I'd be given a nice place to stay, three decent meals a day, and my rap sheet wiped clean." Moran finished his drink and held up has hand to stop the bartender from refilling it. "That was the closest thing to _forgiveness_ I ever felt."

"So when did playing loyal lapdog turn into friends with benefits?"

"When _you_ got boring." He answered drily, the wan smile sparking an unnamable jealousy in Irene as she glared poisonously. "I'm kidding. Actually, it was all by accident. He's always been a little grabby, but after a few years, all his praise sparked something in me. I just started worrying about what he was doing, or who he was meeting with. He kept moving me closer and closer to his room, and was never shy in is advances. He was my handler, how could I say no?" the final thought weighed heavily on him suddenly as if saying it aloud made it real, bought it to light, and he felt like it was impossible to breathe. "_How could I say no_?" He whispered with his head bowed, his strong, steady hands shaking as he tried to expand his lungs.

Sebastian felt a small, light hand rest on his shoulder blade, the short nails quivering as Irene closed in, lips at his ear.

"It's ok, sweetheart." She cooed, her usual confidence softened with the alcohol, or maybe, by the broken man in front of her. "I didn't come here to torture you. But I do want to tell you a secret." He felt a shiver curl up in him and spark red hot as she kissed below his jaw, murmuring slickly, "_Sherlock is_ _alive_."

Moran's eyes snapped open, his brows drawn stonily down, mouth quivering as he tried to hold back a demon trying to crawl out. "What? He _what_? **How!**" His voice sounded like a scratched record, stopping the bar patrons as they all quieted and regarded him, little eyes glowing in the thick smoke like fire flies.

Sebastian felt haunted, as if he had seen a ghost in Irene's eyes.

He slapped a wad of cash on the table and headed out of the bar in a storm of fury, with Irene following on the skirts of his blustering hurricane.

"Sherlock cheated; therefore John is still a target. Why wouldn't Jim tell me?" He growled out, marching the streets with a rippling, ghastly aura. "Why is he keeping secrets?" Moran swiftly turned on Irene like a caged, rabid animal, eyes incensed and diamond difficult to read in the dim street lamps. "Tell me, tell me now or I'll-" Irene gave a short, pained yelp as he twisted her arm, fear distressing her as the man erupted and rose a hand at her.

"Hey! Hey, _let her go_!" John rushed across the street and wedged himself between the pair. "Let the lady go." He commanded in his rusty, Captain's voice, turning to make sure she was ok when he gasped. "Irene Adler?"

"John, _help_." She spoke sadly, grabbing his arms and kneeling her head to his shoulder, as if to seek refuge from the man about to destroy her. "_Please._"

Sebastian couldn't believe what he saw, the short soldier facing away in front of him looking haggard and sorely stitched together, trying to comfort the woman (who had tried to seduce his lover) from a man who was the nameless, faceless sniper meant to take him down. Before John could recover from seeing Irene, Moran bolted, taking to the streets he knew by heart, and ran until he came to a chain linked fence, and climbed it in an adrenaline rush, vanishing into the moonless night.

Irene had held onto John and acted helpless long enough to make sure Moran had ran far enough to escape his nightmare, before she petted John softly and thanked him with a kiss on the cheek.

"W-what are you even doing here?" He choked out, turning round to search for the man but was halted with Irene's warm hands cupping his cheeks.

"Shh, shh, baby its ok, I'm fine. Just a small business meeting gone wrong." Irene placated and drank in the refreshing sight of John Watson. He was thinner than she remembered, with dark, bruising circles cresting his eyes from nightmares, hair a bit shaggy in neglect. She admired how he had stood up to a man twice his size to save a woman he thought he didn't know. He really was a knight in armor, really would make this interesting if he kept playing protector.

How easy would it be for her to just tell him about Sherlock? For her to twist the truth and ruin both Holmes brothers in one sure move? But that wasn't what _Jim _wanted.

Though now Moran knew and he would likely ruin the entire charade by going to Jim….

She weighed the options quickly and gave a simple smile.

"John, it's good to see you. But I need to be off. Client list to fulfill and all that jazz." John's wincing reaction at her job description made her giggle softly before she turned in his grasp and walked off. "See you later dear! This is gonna be fun!"

"_What's_ going to be fun?" The doctor called in question, though as he watched Irene slip into a cab, he knew he wouldn't ever get an answer.

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**Am I the only one who thinks Irene is one of those omen who just dance back and forth from group to group just for her entertainment? I feel like her and Sebastian could have an understanding of each other since both are in pretty deep with Jim, but that might just be me...**

**And sooo the plot thickens! A lot of you seem to want me to torture poor John, but not ****_kill_**** him, so I'm wondering what to do. Dark!Changable!Jim is coming up, I'd ****_hate_**** to see this rating change to mature...(Sarcasm) **

**Would love to hear what you guys think! I don't know what to do next, so what do you guys wish to see more of? Sherlock suffering and pining for John? Mycroft holding Sherlock back from getting to John? John finding out a dark secret of Sherlock's as he cleans out his room, Innocent!Irene facing Jim, Livid!Moran confronting Jim? Those are your options, take your vote now by reviewing with your decision! :) **

**-Your loyal and so thankful author,**

**Castion and Clockwork**

**P.S. Would love some help seeing where this goes, PM or review to voice opinions! **


	6. GAME OVER, Start at last Save Point?

**I'm so excited! Thank you everyone for the sweet and thought provoking reviews! I'm so glad that the fans have ideas they want me to use, and now I'm just itching to type a million chapters! **

**So the votes were cast and it seems like ya'll have dark souls. Haha, everyone was like "You can torture..." or "Id like to see them hurt...", only to be remedied with "OH! But don't kill them!" and "He saves him in the nick of time!" (I love you guys its great that we all have the same feels about these characters!) so I guess this is going to get a bit morbid in a few chapters. **

**But who will be the victim? (That's your role. I need ya'll to decide and vote who is going to be the real victim and who will be the savior. Choose wisely young ones. :]) **

**Warnings: Allusion to current drug use and past rape, awful coping, hallucinations, nightmares, and no intervention from family or friends. Oh and Threatening!****_Alive?_****Moriarty.**

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_"Sherlock."_ his name sounded weak and patient on those lips, just a breath of bleary baritone laced in that molasses thick drawl_. "Come here."_ And Sherlock had let himself turn over in the heat of the shared duvet, curling into the hands that were stroking gently and unhurriedly at him; the lips of the shadow were tender against his forehead, ghosting by the dimple of his ruddy cheeks as he smiled sleepily. The round, soft tip of a nose pressed up against the underside of his jaw, dragging goose bumps up from his skin as the covers lifted a bit, and let cold night air trickle in. Mixed with the heat of the slow seduction, Sherlock felt absolutely on fire, liberated, and the terrible ache in his chest was ebbing back with each deep moan and sharp gasp as a decadence of teeth and hands hoped to slowly push him over the edge.

But, as he took a deep breath on the soft hair he was grasping beneath his long fingers and smelled a drab of expensive cologne, he noticed the fingers trailing his lips were stained with the dark ink of a peacock's quill ink, the stench of starched suits and a gold metal watch heavy in the air as he froze against the touch, brain pulling the fire alarms, a threat of air raid sirens going off in his head as he steeled his muscles and tried to throw the imposter off.

This wasn't John.

No.

_NO! _

The hand around his neck was small and almost playfully boyish as it chocked him, a knee in his groin making him writhe under the awful pressure of the shadow. He felt his eyes roll like loose marbles, mouth open as he tipped back and tried hard to breath, but not catch the scent of old death and gun metal on the man.

On Jim Moriarty.

'It's just a _nightmare_-'Sherlock reasoned, choking on his truth as his Mind Palace refused to open its doors and let him hide under the safe covers of the imaginary room that looked oddly similar to John's at 221B. 'Help!' he cried out cautiously, almost so quite he thought maybe he had whispered it, the fingers releasing him roughly. But as he opened his eyes, the looming shadow didn't dissipate, instead, the man, Jim, it was _Jim_, fleshed out in horrifying detail. He could see the stress crinkled around his eyes, the makeup covering a bright love bite on the soft part of his jaw, the ink splatter on his cuff, the twinkling diamond cuff links, and even the predatorily lust stirring in his fluid features, though Jim kept himself composed as he came closer, eyes shadowed and then bright as he stepped quicker and into the moonlight slicing through the breeze mussing the curtains, letting in a sliver of silver.

"You're not real." Sherlock's lips trembled, the words shaky and unfathomably afraid. Almost as if he watched this man crawl out from beneath his bed and piece his self together from the cobwebs of shadows hanging in the corners of the room.

But the body moved toward him unhindered, strong and powerful in a clever coil of something foul and wicked twisting like metalwork in his stature. "Oh I'm real." Jim's hand came out and caught Sherlock's cheek, like a sculpture of ice as he shied away. "And _alive._ Did you like the touch with us ending in suicides instead of killing each other? Just sounds so much more romantic to me." Moriarty's smile was tiny and so honest that it made Sherlock gag, his shoulders curling in as he began to cough and hack, so sick with the vision of Moriarty that he could still smell the reek of Jim on him like a humid sweat. "Oh darling, you're ill….death wasn't good to you huh? I bet its Mycroft _poisoning_ you, so you can't leave his sight-"

"Shut up!" He moaned deliriously, feeling his fever deepen as his eye sight faded and hazed. "You lie….that's all you do….is lie…" Sherlock could then feel Jim's cold hand snaking against the hem of his pants, teasingly.

"Come now, does Mycroft know what we've done? He' probably so livid that I've shown the _Virgin_ just what the human body is capable of." His fingertips were poisonously scalding as they slipped beneath the band and palmed Sherlock with a merciless pace. "You miss it don't you? Miss all the things I've shown you?" Sherlock locked his nails into the material of Jim's suit, trying to scratch out the man, tear him to pieces, and as he bit back a groan, Sherlock turned in pain as Jim dug is nails back, making the man beneath him scream.

"I didn't come here to revisit our affair." He growled, almost in loss. "I just stopped by to say that you won't have to worry about me messing around your work. Go off and do what you want with this new life. Death is odd, is it not? Your suicide means you can go anywhere and do anything, with no ties to this world. I won't stop you." Jim straightened himself and dusted the shirt of his suit with a derivative snort. "But since I _won_ our game, I'm coming to _claim John_."

Sherlock's brain opened up wide, like a black hole splitting space and taking a deep swallow of air. "What?" He asked in a heaving moan, sounding wounded, indignant eyes roving Moriarty for answers.

For the truth.

"You thought I'd stop with you?" His eyebrows drew up in sincerity, though his smile was wide. "No, no, don't be jealous. Playing our game was fun but you're boring now. Johnny's next. I want to see what he's made of, what will finally _break _John Watson." Jim turned fluidly, hands in his pockets as he slipped on the façade of indifference, placid calm settling as he stepped away, toward the open bedroom door.

"Leave him **alone**." Sherlock breathed heavily, feeling weighted as he watched from the bed at his intruder stood like a shadow of the lighted door way, only his outline drawn. "_Please_, Jim, _leave him alone." _

"Ooh, begging. I'll have to tell Irene all about this. And she said it had been _so hard_…" His voice drifted soft and melodic as his charcoal suit blended with the blackness, door clicking behind him.

The silence of the room was unbalanced and maddening, splitting like glass and spider webbing out and reflecting back at Sherlock. The violent pain in his body was throbbing and persistent, the tears burning in him like boiling water, and his brutal mind delicately opened again, the door of his Mind Palace creaking vulnerable on broken hinges, as if someone had picked the lock or forced their way in.

But as he lay there, breathless and crushing under the weight of morality, he couldn't find the strength to crawl through the door. Instead, is hand rustled through the side drawer and found a 7% mistress waiting for weakness to shutter down its walls and give into the addiction. Sherlock was trying to thread lucidity through the small, sharp needle of the drug, sew himself up, but he couldn't, couldn't get the trembling fingers to still long enough to break a vein or to get his legs to solidify, hold his weight.

The sun was starting to blink through the window by the time he had stood, his hand on the light switch in the foyer of is Mind Palace, and without a second longer he flicked it on, the door behind him slamming, locking him in.

And as he turned from wall to wall, fear unsettled in the dregs of his soul as it sifted through the murky bottom and rose to the top, thick and black like an oil spill. Because carved into the white wood walls, showing splintered oak and sloppy script, the words "**Rape**" and "_Love_" and "_John_" and "**Death**" and "_Good Bye_" and "**With Love, Jim**" glared back at him. They loomed inerasable and ugly inside him, scarring Sherlock as he was brought to his knees, and felt a scream split itself from the pit of his very being, pitched in terror, in trepidation, and pure, undignified detestation.

At _everything_.

At the _pity_ in Mycroft's hardened stare a he checked on him.

At the soft, faded thought of John blinking from existence, aging, _alone_.

At Jim for cheating at their game of cat and mouse, for taking him against his will as the drug had numbed hiss senses ad made everything feel _ecstatic_ and_ pure_.

But most of all, at the shallow skin of the man who had encrypted himself away from the entire world and jumped to save the only thing he loved.

_Yes_, most of all, _he hated himself_.

**-VV—-**

Gregory Lestrade watched from the crack in the door as Sherlock tore himself apart, delirious and dangerously destitute on bringing himself to the brink of sanity and wrenching himself through the portal of life, and he mourned. No one else was in the room, but he fought and yelled and begged with dry tears as if his hallucinations were vengeful and ruthless, and it took every fiber of the DI not to rush in and protect the little boy from destroying himself.

He thought of all the sad goodbyes that had been uttered at the funeral, the resignation in John's eyes as everyone spoke about Sherlock Holmes: Brother, Companion, Best friend. The best detective to swoon around London's underbelly for the chance at catching crooks, the greatest mind of this century, a changed man who smiled more often and joked drily enough to pass scathing truth as jabbing sarcasm.

Good memories were laid to rest with the coffin they had buried Sherlock in.

And as Lestrade leaned against the door and deflated in a sigh, he wished Sherlock _had_ been dropped six feet under. Because this deranged man wasn't the one they buried. This was a monster, clawing from the grave.

"Don't tell John." Mycroft's voice spooked Greg, as he peered from his knees and drank in the utter surety and stark presence of the elder Holmes.

"Aren't you going to stop him from using? It's eating his brain." He scolded bitterly, biting back his tone so Sherlock wouldn't hear.

But Mycroft didn't falter, didn't flinch as Greg pinned him with a needling glare, only drawing himself up taller and repeating in a voice devoid of exceptions. "**Don't tell John**."

The two froze with each other's assessment, until the corpse in the guarded room cried out pitifully, terror ridden, and calling frantically for "_John! John?_" and Greg rose to open the door.

"_No_, you'll only upset him. He has to acclimate himself. It'll be over soon." Mycroft glanced to their room down the hall. "Come to bed." He asked in a hushed whisper, though Greg felt it a stark demand, and only shook his head, drawing away and picking up his jacket from the chair.

"This can't go on, My." Came the tired voice as Greg opened the door, letting in the dry winters wind of London night. "It just _can't_."

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**Father!Lestrade vs. Mother!Mycroft.**

**(That isn't going to end well.)**

**Next chapter is Greg going to confront John, Moran pays for his knowledge, and John finding out the awful truth about Sherlock Holmes.**

**-Your loyal author and writer,**

**Castion and Clockwork**

**P.S. I'd love to hear what you guys think! I always adore to know what I'm doing right or wrong, how I can improve, and what ya'll want to see! Send me a message or review and I'll see how to twist and unfurl this story! Love you guys! Hugs hugs hugs!**


	7. Hunting Without a Permit

**EDIT: Fixed grammar errors, fleshed out a few ideas more clearly, and helped keep the sentences more fluid. I did change a few small things about John and Moran's meeting though, so you may want to skim through it once, no worries though my lovelies. :) Enjoy!**

***Sigh* Waiting in the doctor's office gave me some time to type this. I feel exhausted, hope this lives up to you guy's high expectations. Enjoy my dear lovelies, I'm off to watch the Hobbit and eat popcorn.**

**Warnings: None? Oh, wait, kidnapping, ANGRY!Sebastian, and Jim in general. Not real warnings actually lol. **

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"Jim!" Sebastian Moran was so livid as he slammed doors open that he heard the female apprentices gasp in fear as he stalked through. Kicking in the door labeled James Moriarty, he stormed up to the fine desk and slammed his fists against the top, making the folders topple into the floor, the hourglass shatter on its side, and upsetting the cat that jumped, scared with hackles raised from its owner's calm lap.

"Temper, temper." Jim's eyes didn't leave the document in front of him; instead, clicking is tongue in acknowledgement of the seething man in front of him. "Pick and choose your battles carefully, Sebastian." He answered cryptically before he lounged back in his high backed chair and blew on the steaming cup of tea.

"Why didn't you tell me he was still alive?" Moran demanded in a voice sharp as a machete and loud as a lion's roar, the thin vein in his forehead was pulsing with tell-tell anger, lips trembling in rage as he kept bawling his fingers up into white knuckled fists.

Jim's eye brows raised slowly, his smile wickedly straitening on his face as he took a sip of tea. "I didn't know you were so interested in Sherlock that I had to tell you his every move. Careful, I might get jealous." He chided with a dark chuckle, angering Mora even more.

"You know what I mean." He growled low in his chest, as if he was about to pounce and beat the ever living life from his boss. "He cheated at the game and John is supposed to be taken out. Those were the rules." He reigned in his voce but left his tone soaked in old, burning poison. But Jim didn't seem to feel the barbs, just shrugging his shoulders and setting down the cup.

"To be fair, I didn't really play fair either. Clever Sherlock gets to live, so be it. But I don't want genius detectives chasing me around the shadows of London anymore." Moriarty straightened in his chair as he watched disbelief shroud the rage in Moran, soothing him with sick curiosity. "I'm more interested in love sick widows and steeling them away from their pretty, picture perfect white picket fences."

Sebastian didn't even attempt to hide the confusion distilling his anger, just pinched his brows together and breathed the question hotly. "What?"

"John Watson was the one to change Sherlock." The bitter curl of Jim's sneer was sour as he spat his words. "I need to know what John has that could melt down our little hero and pick apart his mind and claim that heart. That kind of strength…" He paused, eyes hazed as he looked beyond Moran, caught in his own little world, "I need to _ruin_ that. Need to harness him." Sebastian felt a pang of something sick stir in his stomach, at the adoration, no matter how twisted, in his boss's eyes.

_Jealousy_, that was the name on this unmasked emotion, as he let the strength loose from his tense muscles. "So…so you _want him_?" He asked sounding almost childish to himself, and was disgusted with the enthusiastic nod in answer.

"I want you to bring him here. And if you're good enough, I'll even let you have a turn at figuring out this little soldier." Jim was positively glowing as he finished his tea and called to the cat lounging languidly on the sofa. "Go on Sebastian, we're through here." He waved him off and swiveled is chair to look out at the bustling mid-noon city below.

Sebastian stood, cemented in his stance for a silent minute more, before he turned too and left down the hall, his usually emptied and numb heart feeling so heavy, he wondered how he hadn't fallen through the floor boards.

**-VV-**

John would be lying if he said there weren't days he felt so awful he couldn't bring himself to roll out of bed and the last thing he wanted was to participate in the outside world. But on his strong days, John was able to straighten up, soak in a steaming shower, and look at his life through, cracked, foggy, rose colored glasses.

And today was a good day.

He thought so, because it had been the rare night he had slept soundly through and even woke up early feeling refreshed, his shoulder aching comfortably as he did his morning stretches, even had appetite enough to eat at the cafe by the Clinic before his shift.

It was wonderful, he thought, to come back to work after all those dark days, and as he saw to glowing pregnant women, and scuffed knees from the local playground, and young men with signed casts ready to be cut away for freedom, he felt empowered, suddenly flushed with the milk of human kindness as he worked straight through lunch, took a few of Sarah's patients and even said he'd stay half a shift later to help with paper work.

"Easy there, don't think just because you've been gone you have to make up for lost time." Sarah scolded playfully, her hand on his shoulder equally comforting as her eyes as she remembered the splintering man that had thornily brushed her off the first few weeks after the funeral.

John chuckled lightly; the laugh lines crinkling around his eyes making him look younger and older at the same time. Like a fresh soul who'd seen aged horrors, still haunted in the dark.  
"I'm just having a good day is all." his tired shoulders shrugged and he signed the document with an extra twirl on the '_N_'.

"Well you get out of here; maybe treat yourself with a haircut." Sarah's hand moved lovingly to his slightly curled locks and ruffled them with a grin. "You're starting to look like a teen pop star."

Both of them laughed real hard then and as he left the warm glow of the clinic and caught his figure in the glass windows, he thought that maybe a haircut was just what he needed.

**-VV-**  
The barber on Fleet Street trimmed it for him, snipping some length but keeping a natural thickness, even asking if he should tint it blonde again.  
John Watson watched himself in the mirror real close, noticing the faint lines of age marring him with a slow crease, the grays in his hair not _too_ noticeable, but still glossy in the lighting.

He suddenly felt too old.  
As if he had lived through too much for too long.  
How many years before _he couldn't take it? Would sit atop the heights of the city and throw himself over to end-_

"No, it's fine. I hear ladies like a touch of gray." he joked and paid the man without another word, and made his way back to Baker Street, the age seeming to weigh on his shoulders as he counted the days since he had been alone.

**-VV-**  
Angelo's was never a terribly busy restaurant, but as John passed by, he noticed that even though the neon sign blinked enthusiastically "OPEN", the tables were deserted, the few teenage waiters sitting around tossing chips into a pile for poker, and Angelo sighing broken heartedly at the front counter.  
Feeling generous changed, and slightly courageous, John walked in, not faltering with a caring smile as Angelo noticed him and exclaimed in excited Italian.

"Oh John! I haven't seen you for quite a while." he embraced him in a bear hug, squishing John in his think arms, and held him by the shoulders as they parted. "You are looking good, very good."

"Thanks, I..." he gave a vague gesture as Angelo gave him the table near the window, the table him and Sherlock always sat at. "I feel good actually. Thought I'd come say hi."

Angelo nodded deeply, as if he had read it in his posture and his down cast eyes that the chair across from him was too achingly empty, and offered him a menu as if to hide the truth. "I'm glad you are here though. Things have been slow since," Angelo stopped himself, then cast a glare at the boys gambling a few tables away, neglecting their work. "Hey! What does this look like, Las Vegas? Get into the back and cook John up some bread sticks!" the youths left their game with a few grumbles, scrambling to the back to knead dough and start up the oven. "But I'm happy to see you. As always, anything you want," his hand felt heavier on John's shoulder than Sarah's did, but it held more emotion than hers had, held a shared world and understanding about the missing detective in their lives. "It's on the house."

John uttered an embarrassed thanks and hid behind his menu as Angelo disappeared into the kitchen, eyes only perusing the menu to take his mind off the terrifying and gut wrenching thought that when he closes the menu, there will be nothing but empty space across from him.

The table was suddenly too big, the shop way too empty, and as John breathed a sigh, he braced himself and set down the menu, staring into the hard, drowning ocean of eyes of a stranger in front of him.

"Jesus, Mother Mary and Joseph!"

"I didn't mean to startle you, I'm sorry." the man placated as John caught his breath, spooked beyond belief at the guest who had suddenly appeared from thin air. John hadn't heard him pull the chair out or the doorbell ring when he came in. "Sebastian Moran," he held out his hand and split his lips into a lovely, self-assured smile. "Do you mind if I sit here?"

John was unsettled with the power of him, his loose, golden bangs a little longer than his short, military issued cut on the sides, the sleek Japanese tiger tattoo lurking curled on his shoulder in beautiful, bright orange, his arrogance in his well-trimmed muscles stretched beneath his shirt, and his dulled eyes looking horrifically dangerous, dog tags clinking on his partially buttoned shirt as he leaned forward, friendly and accepting.

"Oh, uh, hello. John...John Watson." he offered his hand for a shake and squeezed back as Sebastian addressed his strength in the hardy greeting. He couldn't place it, but he felt like he had seen this bloke before-

"I'm so glad I found you, actually. Ever since Afghanistan I've been searching for the doctor who saved my life and when I read your blog, I knew it was you." Moran's eyes softened as he licked his lips and beamed with his flawless lie, warm and coarse as desert sand. "You saved my life, I owe you _everything_." his confession stirred something proud in John as he rekindled his soldier flare and found himself grinning sheepishly back.

"Oh thank you, I've never, never been thanked in person." John scratched at his wrist absently, feeling scorched under the gaze of the young man in front of him. "I'm sorry, but a lot of the war was a blur of strangers, blood, and bullets, I don't remember-"

The strong voice interrupted knowingly, gently understanding. "I came in with a bullet in my chest." Sebastian's clever fingers tugged on the first, fastened button and pulled the fabric lower, showing the red, paling scar branded between his pectorals. John caught his eyes lingering a bit too hotly as his doctor's mind set to work trying to recognize stitching pattern, the neat way it had scarred and healed. _'Seems a bit long for a bullet wound though, and are those signs of cauterization? Couldn't be, I never-'_, but he felt the man staring him down again and flashed his gaze up to meet Moran's, trying to keep a professionally neutral face.

"Oh, nasty business. I got shot myself, though not as cleanly removed." John saw Sebastian wince in understanding, apologizing in small talk as the two began to swap war stories almost effortlessly, Angelo bringing plates of fresh, stemming bread to the table with cokes, and promising their dinner to be ready in a few more minutes after they finally ordered.

The entire night, Moran was trying to learn everything he could from his enemy, to decide the best way to rent him to shreds when he was given the chance, but talking with John wasn't at all what he thought it would be. Instead of being the boring, pale faced stranger that happened to accidentally fall into Sherlock's orbit and gain Jim's sudden obsession, he was a well learned doctor with tender eyes that were filled with expressive empathy and the kindest smile ever. He was interesting and calming, and not at all the victim that Sebastian had made him out to be in his mind. He could see why Sherlock would keep him.

He wondered if he had that effect on Jim at one time, a dose of consistency in the earth quake of crumbling insanity.

"But coming back here to London was difficult. Working with Sherlock really kept my mind off of things, got my hands busy." John finished his story and took a draw of his forth coke. "What about you? What do you do now?"

Sebastian's pause was followed by him finishing his drink. "I mostly work in high end business negotiations, boing stuff really." He chided as their dinner was brought out, John's chicken parmesan looking as mouthwatering as Moan's simple spaghetti dish.

"Bon appetite!" Angelo wished them a good meal and went back to clean up, leaving the two alone.

John ate like a man starved; Sebastian noted as he picked up his fork and ate with hesitancy. His mind was alight with warnings now, on how he shouldn't be dining with the enemy, on how much trouble he could be in if Jim knew what he was planning to do, and how gentle John was as he kept asking questions about Moran, and not in the way Jim did when looking for answers and blackmail, but in the polite, '_you're interesting and I don't want to let you go'_ kind of way a crush might have.

_**Crush? **_

Moran's eyes widened in unadulterated shock as his brain started to fancy little, widowed John Watson in front of him, and quickly quelled it with the thought that this man had threatened Jim, had worked with Jim's nemesis to topple everything that had strived so hard to accomplish. 'He is the enemy. He will _ruin everything_ I've ever known. If Jim gets ahold of him…' he swallowed a forkful of pasta at the disgruntling thought  
of just what Jim would do if (no, not if, but _when_) he got his hands on John.

"Everything alright?" John asked as he saw Sebastian cough around his noodles. "Can be a bit spicy at first." His good natured face was friendly and heartwarming as he offered his napkin.

"I'm fine." He spoke, suddenly disconsolate, and stood. "I have to go." Sebastian took out his wallet, hearing John protest in the back ground that he would pay, and handed Angelo the wad of bills as he passed him at the door.

"Who was that?" Asked the burly owner who whistled at the generous tip included in the payment.

John sat back in disbelief, his eye brows drawn down in deep contemplation as he answered, dazed, "Sebastian Moran."

"Seems like a nice bloke." Angelo nodded and handed him a refill on his drink. "He took quite a liking to ya, did you know him in the war?"

Shaking his head absently, eyes trained on the door, John took a sip of his coke, not noticing the rather bitter taste of it as his head swam with the picture of Moran's wound, his lips finally catching up with his brain as he answered, "No...I've never seen that man before in my life."

**-VV-**

Walking to Baker Street felt so familiar to Greg that he had to brace himself not to call out to Sherlock as he made his way up the rickety stairs. But as he knocked on the door for the sixth time, he started to get a little worried. '_John should be home by now._' He reasoned, checking his watch as he heard the sweet call of Mrs. Hudson coming up the stairs, probably to find out who was banging on the door at this time.

"Oh dearie me, Detective Inspector, is everything ok?"

"Just Greg." He amended with a chuckle, jabbing a thumb toward the door. "Is John home?" He felt like a little kid asking his friends mom if little Johnny was allowed to play outside.

Mrs. Hudson's mouth wrinkled as she frowned and shook her head solemnly. "No, John seems to spend more and more time down at that pub. Nasty business if you ask me, but he's still mourning." The first inklings of tears glassed her eyes but with a sniff she dismissed them. "Haven't talked to him properly for a few days, but I saw I down at Angelo's for dinner not but an hour ago. I had picked up some groceries at the market and saw him in there with some other man on my way by."

Lestrade looked oddly perplexed. '_John, with another man? A coworker? Friend?_'

"What did he look like, the bloke he was eating with?" He asked, Mrs. Hudson looking up in memory, slowly answering as she recollected the scene.

"He looked like an army friend of John's, with dog tags and a shaggy military cut. Quite in shape he was, with the bluest eyes and such a handsome face." She smiled, thinking that John always did attract the nicest friends. Lestrade quickly thumbed a text of the details to Mycroft, hoping that the elder Holmes would know who he was, and maybe where John had wandered off to. "Oh!" She exclaimed sweetly. "And he had a tattoo penned on his shoulder, of a tiger stalking up with its tail curled like it was about to pounce. It looked nicely done, but I don't see why you young people think they're necessary-" she kept on with her tirade and Lestrade chuckled at how she still called men as old as him and John _'young people'_. It made him feel a little better about his already grey hair. "Oh! My Bundt cake, I left it in the oven!" She apologized and promised him a piece before he left, hurrying down the stairs a fast as that hip of hers would allow.

Greg thanked her before he answered his text, face paling as Mycroft's answer shot fear through him like sixty thousand volts of dry electricity.

_**"John's been kidnapped."**_

* * *

**Anyone excited for all the angst, torture, and heroics coming up? I hope so. Please leave a review so I know people are actually reading and interested for more. I'd hate to learn I'm taking my time to type and flesh out plots and characters and nobody cares. Tell me now if this is getting too wordy, boring, or not enough of what you guys wanted. I need to know this is going ok. **

**Your loyal and tired author,**

**Castion and Clockwork**

**P.S. Sorry about all this sudden John shipping, lol. As I began writing I knew I wanted Jim to have a sick obsession with him, but then Irene started pressing into the picture, and now Sebastian is starting to fall head over heels. Its the man, really, he's ****_too adorable_**** for his own good. Everybody wants a piece of John Watson! **

**But don't worry, there's major Johnlock coming up. Like heavy, deep, ****_I cant contain it_**** Johnlock. I hope you guys are ready for it. haaha. **


	8. In the Arms of the Angels

**EDIT: I fixed grammar and things for all of you belly aching out there. None of the information changed in the chapter, just corrected a few verb tenses, run on sentences, and possession confusion. :) Thank you my Darling's for correcting me. **

* * *

The halls of Holmes Manor were airless and stuffy as Greg raced his way up the stairs two at a time and swung open the door to Mycroft's office with a deafening crack of the door knob slamming the wall. Not a sound rung for a long while in the interrupted conversation and he began to tremble under the weight of rudely barging into the space as Greg felt two sets of eyes bore into him with a blistering fire that started in his shaking shoulders and vibrated to the tips of his numb fingers.

Behind the desk, with his back ram rod straight, eyes sharp and direct was Mycroft, face upturned to the curvaceous woman sitting primly like a statue on his desk, serpentine back to Greg as she tossed a well ironed and worrisome gaze toward him as one of her white gloved hands reached out to the black shadow looming on the couch. She snapped her fingers, breakig the trace of the subte silence, but the corpse didn't look up to Greg, just grit his teeth with a seething, pained sound and spitting at Mycroft in a dangerously, knife sharpened way as he continued the argument.

"Had you let me collect him earlier and kept him here, this wouldn't have happened. Of course Moran got to John, I told you it was a possibility-"

"You also said that you had seen Jim Moriarty in your room even though I had watched you myself all night. You've been under the drug too long. You can't even perceive reality, how am I to trust your fragile mind?" The elder Holmes didn't need to yell to drive home a point, his voice like cast steel, scorching hot and scathingly reprimanding as he pinned his brother under a derisive scowl. Sherlock visibly recoiled his puffed chest as Mycroft mentioned his '_fragile mind'_ as if he had been shot at, curling his spider limbs up into the expensive upholstered couch and reflecting his carved glare at Lestrade, the newest player in this game.

But before Sherlock could unsheathe his tongue and boil over, the woman spoke in a calm smiling voice. "Now, now boys, this isn't getting John found-"

"Oh please!" Sherlock sized up his new opponent, forgetting Greg momentarily, "You're the reason he's missing! I gave you specific directions that he wasn't to be harmed and you said that he wasn't a playing piece!" An elegant finger jabbed in her direction, his voice a mixture of deceived glass shards, burning the specimen under the magnifying glass with a childish vindication. "This is your entire fault you _harlot_!" He ended his argument with a shake of his raven curls, anger threading through the strong bough of his shoulders, savage and vicious as he stood and prowled the three steps to look down at her, as if he was to devour her like some merciless, hell bent demon. Irene's eyes widened dramatically in their thick black liner, her red dashed lips opened in a disgusted, devilish gasp.

"_Excuse me_? I was the one who protected him from Sebastian that night at the pub! I knew Sebastian was in a foul mood so I got him drunk enough to leave and hurry back to Jim before he had half a mind to finish what he's started! You're welcome!" Sherlock bared his teeth at her all the same as she rolled her shoulders and tossed her head to look down her nose at Mycroft. "One lady can't do everything; yell at _the government_ for not sweeping the filth off the streets more often." Greg stepped forward hesitantly, wondering if he'd survive this pit of lions if he was to inch in slow enough not to draw too much attention at once. There was a struggle for power balancing before his very eyes, with Sherlock barely able to stand straight, his irises fogged with the mysterious sober mood that had eaten him alive with his epiphany, Mycroft absolute and iron fisted as he stood his ground, shifting the gravity of the entire world with his imperious reach to the corners of this earth, derisive eyes everywhere, and this mysterious woman with her ivory carved stature and fluid sex appeal that could bring a man to his knees with the look of power he wielded in her stance, her fearless eyes, and that insidious grin. One missed block one wrong footed position and they'd slip in this dance and be devoured.

Lestrade suddenly felt out of his league.

"I'm one man, Mrs. Adler, and unlike Moriarty, I can't just go around sniping off the little targets that stand in my way. I have to be fair and discreet-"

"So this Sebastian guy has John?" Lestrade interrupted cautiously, now all the eyes on him again and he felt forced to suppress a bone chilled shudder with a dry swallow. "Pointing fingers and shoving blame back and forth isn't going to speed up the process, so let's look at the obvious." He offered, earning an exaggerated eye roll from Sherlock, who shifted his weight on his unsteady legs and snapped like a wounded, rabid dog.

"The _obvious!_ Oh yes Lestrade, brilliant plan!" The sarcasm wasn't as charming as when John was around to dull it's spite, and Greg found himself taking in a heated breath to quell his father's tone used when he grounded his teenage boys. '_He's hurt and grieving the best he can while locked up_.' His mind soothed, though he could feel the palpable tension in the room amp up the moment Irene's heels clicked on the wood floor as she stood regally. Lestrade felt that this stranger knew a little more than she let on, if only you could keep her attention long enough to claw out the truths from her clutches. Though those trust issues may be lingering resent for the female gender after his precocious wife walked out of the court with custody of the children and the gym teacher on her arm.

Mycroft on the other hand was just as hard to read as any other day with his expressionless face not a wrinkle out of place as he began scolding Sherlock for behaving like a petulant child, at which Sherlock threw back the fact that Mycroft only sided with Greg because the two were sleeping together, Mycroft shutting his mouth at the beginnings of a scathing retort.

Irene turned on the detective inspector and gave a lascivious grin, making her chess Queen's move as she slid unbounded across the board, almost tempted to call "_Check Mate_" as she cornered Greg. Now Irene Adler was unashamedly attractive, in an _'I'd pay money to keep her for a bit'_ way, but she was dipped in enough expensive jewelry for Lestrade's stomach to plummet to his shoes at the price at such a dangerous fling. She was powerful as she prowled in his direction, all hips and heels as a white hand gripped his tie and tugged him gently.

"So you're the new addition to the Holmes family." Irene studied him with her free hand grasping his jaw and searching as if to read his life secrets in the wrinkle of Greg's tired face. "Your wife left because you're a busy man, but she should have stayed. Your loyalty is like John's, unfathomable, deep seeded in chivalry and forgotten codes."

Even though her voice was just a whisper of champagne in the empty space between them, it was enough for Sherlock to stop his deductions about Mycroft's current love life to snarl in Irene's direction. "Stop talking about _my John_." He cursed and gripped his hands in his hair, as if to pull himself back to the present, shaking the cobwebs in his Mind Palace, flinging open the windows and calling the thoughts back like hounds. "You have to find him, tell me where he is." Irene snapped her attention from Greg to Sherlock in a fluid movement that snapped her heels on the floor in a slow, seductive canter as she stalked up to the detective, eyes only for him.

"_Ah ah ah_," she wagged her finger, "Demanding won't get you anywhere-" but her haughty threat caught on her surprised inhale as Sherlock finally seized her, hands on her throat as he had her pressed completely back on Mycroft's desk, her legs wrapping around him in retaliation, stilettos digging into the backs of his legs. Her pretty mouth was gasping for air as the veins in his hands bulged like ropes with the strength of his attack.

Meanwhile, Mycroft simply looked down at her ghostly paled face without a smudge of sympathy smeared on his features folding his fingers beneath his jaw. "You can either tell us what we want to know now or we kill you. Or you can keep demanding our attention, we lose John, and then we kill you. It's up to you, Mrs. Adler."

"I thought-" she chocked on an exhale, gloved claws fighting at the human machine bent on squeezing the life from her features. "You said you were_ fair_."

The crack of a whip, followed by a feminine gasp and the moan of lasting ecstasy rang from her pocket, her phone lighting up with a call, but it was ignored and went to voice mail as it spurred Sherlock to dig his nails in deeper, teeth grit and brows set so stone angry he looked half rabid, half mad, an 100% lethal.

"I said fair and discreet. It's _fair_ because you get a choice. And _discreet_ because after we send your ashes on the winds of the Thames, I'll make sure the entire world forgets an 'Irene Alder' ever hunted these streets." His eyes were eclipsed with a businesslike threat, something foreshadowing either the spike of success or the plunge into a long wrought depression, as he frowned down at the trembling prey.

Greg noticed her emerald eyes undulating back as if the sun rolling off the horizon into a night, and his hand shaking Sherlock from his black mood was what stopped her unconsciousness from seeping in to whisk her away. Irene slipped from the desk unceremoniously in a heap of silken dress folds and wry coughing, hurt pride gaping like a weeping oozing wound in her chest as she drew into herself, protective and frightened to tremors.

"I don't know where they took John, I swear." Irene managed as she licked her dried lips, eyes down in submission as if she had just found her true place. "Moran came home around 8:00 PM, saying he had had dinner with John, expressing that he wasn't sure if he could take him out without being caught up the moment. He stayed with me the entire night until _you_ texted me, _accusing me_," she slurred indignantly, "that I hadn't held up my end of the bargain."

"So, John was taken while Moran was with Irene." Greg slowly pieced the time line together. "Therefore Moran couldn't have done it. Who else works for Jim?"

"Nobody." Sherlock answered, still glaring down as if to coax the atoms of Irene Adler to suddenly combust. "Jim trusts no one, that's why I was so surprised when he got himself a '_live in one.'_ But if he thinks he needs a master assassin working as a long and short range body guard, then he must have known something was about to happen. He supposedly took out his greatest foe, why the extra manpower moved so quickly to is side in such little time?" Greg wacked his brain, though as he glanced at Sherlock for a hint at the answer, he saw that the detective was blank.

'_Oh, that's right_.' Greg reminded himself. '_Destroyed Mind Palace_.'

"Well Moriarty didn't know you were going to fake your death. It was a surprise to us all when he found out." Irene truthfully spoke, offering her hand for help up but being ignored. "So he wasn't afraid of _you_." She quipped a bit rudely, turning on heel and shrugging. "What does it matter anyway? Maybe John wasn't kidnapped; maybe he just got up and _walked away_. _Just left forever_." Greg flinched in onlooker empathy as she cut her eyes at Sherlock, blame disgracing her voice and pitching her tone playfully dark.

But Sherlock had closed out the entire world, pacing in the ruins of his mind now to delete distractions.

_John eats dinner with the one man in London that wants him dead and turns up missing. But the assassin was too busy messing in social affairs with The Woman, so he couldn't have done it. _

_Jim wouldn't do something as boring as kidnap John without leaving a clue for an audience, it was his MO, whether he recognized it or not, like all villains he wanted to demonstrate his vast capabilities. _

_So who stole John Watson?_

**-VV—-**

John woke sluggishly with the noises of children whispering around him, the scent of grime and city dumpsters potent as he wrinkled his nose and rolled over wretch his aching stomach up to the wood floor.

"Sam, grab a bucket, I think he's about to get sick." A sweet, rushed voice lulled recognizably in his head, scratching at his consciousness as if to wake him smoothly. "John, John can you hear me?" A hand reached into the darkness of him and lulled him up from the murky, roiling sea of nausea that was threatening to drown him ruthlessly. He chocked his real lungful of air as if he had been resurrected, body heaving at the bright lights, the gasps of the strangers as he groaned sickly and felt a spike of pain beating behind his closed eyes.

"W-what happened," John didn't recognize the strangled voice escaping his own lips in a husky rasp. "Where am I?" The shapes of the children where wavering and stepping closer, eyes coming into detail first as he strained to look around the flat, licking his lips to moisten them ad speak clearly.

He heard boots scuffing the edges of the stairs, creaking on the 13th one, the door groaning on its hinges, the kettle whistling that it was ready to be poured. These were comfortable sounds….these were the sound of-

"221B Baker Street, Sir." A male voice interrupted his reasoning, the youth sounding incredulous as he whispered for the younger kids to move back and sit still on the couch. "That Moran fellow was on Mr. Holmes' list of dangerous men, so I had to make sure you were detained before he took you. The drug should be leaving your system, just give it some more time before you start rushing around." The voice was effortlessly diagnostic and sharp, matching the dark skinned, dark haired boy that was peering into John's eyes, checking his pupils.

"You_ drugged_ me?" His voice cracked a bit high pitched and unquestionably light, lucidness finally grabbing decent old on everything as John finally opened his eyes ad assessed the damage.

On his couch, four small children, a set of twin boys and two sweet girls sat occupied with looking at the pictures in his medical textbooks, a teenage girl was walking toward him with a steaming cup of tea in her hands as another came from his bed room with his duvet folded in her arms.

"Thought this'd warm him right up." She mentioned as the boy kneeling by him nodded and offered his hand, stone face set with not line of sympathy as he answered John.

"It was either drug and take you home or let you slide into the hands of a murderer." He rolled is shoulders and stood as John swatted away his help and managed to pull himself into his chair. "The name's Thomas and you're welcome by the way." Thomas turned his back to the doctor as the girls tended to him like mother hens, tucking the covers over him and cautioning him about the hot tea and its slightly sweet taste.

This menagerie of sudden crazy might have been daunting to many people, but to John, the fuzzy throbbing of pain in the back of his head, the nameless children _'oohing'_ and _'awwing'_ over his biology books, the sarcastic wit of the curly haired boy, and his tea were all ghosts of his old, exciting life, stirring in him a smile, though it could have been the after effects of the drug.

Either way, John couldn't quite explain how, but he felt _wonderful._

"Wait, wait. Murderer? Mr_. Holmes_? Are you a part of Mycroft's faction, did he send you to spy on me…." He insulted, brow wrinkled with confusion. "Who exactly are all of you?"

The blonde girl who had made the tea gave a knowing smile as she answered, "We're apart of Sherlock's homeless organization. We've had strict orders on taking care of you, and when Sebastian Moran broke protocol, Thomas decided to intervene." John looked at Thomas again and noticed that he'd seen is face before. Yes! He had been one of the workers at Angelo's when he went out to dinner!

"Homeless?" John's gentle nature suddenly began to unveil the obvious signs of neglect and abuse on all of the children, his heart seizing in his chest as all of the facts came crashing in, the drug cleaned out and opening his senses to the flood gate of reality all at once. '_Sherlock had people watching out for me? Even from the grave he's protecting me…_' John's eyes passed over each of them, and though they didn't look like much, he knew they were all cut from the same fabric as he had been. Lost, rejected, and broken. And the great detective, the savior, Sherlock Holmes had been kind enough to take them under wing. Just like how he had swooped in and rescued John.

"We have no real home of our own, but Sherlock always had open arms in our times of greatest needs. Used to call us his '_misfits'_. We'd gather information off the streets, keep our eyes peeled for clues and in return he paid us, give us a room downstairs on cold nights, even got a few of us jobs at small restaurants with patrons that owed him favors." Thomas elaborated as he picked up one the toddlers, setting her on his hip. "We all still believe in Sherlock Holmes. And when I saw that man looking at you…" a gloomy shadow darkened Thomas' eyes as he scoffed, spitting out the image with a shake of his curls. "I couldn't let you just walk out of there alone. Drugging you was he only way." He shrugged at John's gaping expression. "If you don't mind, we'll all be staying here until we figure out what to do with you. I called the Woman but it went straight to voice mail-"

"_Irene_? You work with Irene?" John asked, scrunching his nose in disgust.

Sam finally came back with a plastic bucket, shaking his head as he came into view. "Nope, the Woman just usually knows how to hide people away for a while. But we won't mind staying here instead." He shrugged uncaringly and sat in Sherlock's chair, staring John down. "So what's first on the to-do list?" Sam asked to Thomas, but it was John's steady voice that answered.

"I need to call Mycroft and make more tea," John eyed his cup suspiciously as if to wonder that he might need something stronger in order to make it through this alive and partially sane. "But let me make you something to eat, you look half starved..." The two girls shrieked excitedly and started asking what kind of food he could make, placing orders as Thomas rolled his eyes saying gruffly that he didn't need handouts. The toddlers reacted to the older children's happiness with John by laughing gleefully and clapping, their little bodies scrambling off the couch to jump into John's lap, each of them smiling fondly up at him as if he was the rising sun. "And baths, you're all getting baths." He chuckled as he caught the scent of grimy city streets on them, his insides melting with the expressions of awe and laughter lighting the dirty children's faces, and the gentle '_thank yous'_ that ensued.

'_So these are the misfits of Baker Street?_' he mused as he slowly stood, balancing a child in each arm as the two older girls took the rest, his mind forgetting all about the Sebastian Moran, instead, busying itself with the trills of playing Father, for helping lives, for taking care of something that had once been Sherlock's job.

* * *

**Oh! I just adore Father!John and would like to flesh out his ache, pains, and grievings with these children before we go into the awful scheme of taking down Captain John Watson that Moriarty has devised. **

**Anyone ready for cuddly times ad then sudden angst? Cause its mostly down hill from here. **

**Review and tell me what you like or hate! I love feed back and can't wait for us to dive into the next chapter!**

**Your author,**

**Castion and Clockwork**


	9. Life Isn't Cheap

**EDIT: Fixed a few things that I had messed up last night when I uploaded it half asleep. :) **

**I am so sorry for the extra long wait. I had to go out of state for a funeral and had no ay to upload anything, and Finals are this week so I've been busy. But here you go! Another chapter! :) I hope you guys are still following. **

**Warnings: Mentions of past drug use and prostitution, sad back stories, and children in dangerous situations. Oh I'm a stupid American, never been to England, and have no idea the lay out, so excuse me for making up the names for all these shops. And I don't know if ya'll have thrift stores. We do here, and they're life savers. **

**ANYWAY, here's the sorry, and next chapter with be lots of Sherlock and a surprise guest. ;P **

**ENJOY MY LOVLIES! **

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The streets were shining with a glitter of fallen rain, the air light as he inhaled the earthy scent of more to come and held the door open to "Matthew's Sift and Thrift", ushering in the crowd of orphans, counting each as they huddled in out of the misty city. Sam had hailed a cab from Baker Street so he could take his sisters Lottie and Clara back to their foster mother, because they were the only children who didn't live on the street out of the bunch, and so now John found himself in charge of the twins, George and Oliver, tiny little things in their matching clothes, holding to his hands as if he was about to disappear, their sister Toni and her best friend Darcy, and Thomas, who liked to walk behind the group as if to keep track of everyone, always tossing a cautious glance backwards, as if to catch a ghost following.

"Ok." John commended and lifted Georgie up after he kept holding his arms out expectantly, and turned to the older ones. "You all go pick out anything you like. You're going to need clothes for a few weeks, so grab whatever you fancy." He adored how Toni and Darcy thanked him profusely before grabbing each other's hands and heading off excitedly towards the women's clothing, while Thomas just gave him a wary eye, tipping his head down in submission.

"Sir, are you sure?" He asked a little shyly, unlike the confidence he had shown with Sam around.

Oliver was tugging on Johns pant leg and George kept swatting at John, reaching for a sequenced dress on displayed behind him, the man just shifting the child to the other hip, petting Ollie with his open palm. "Don't worry about it. I have some money saved up, it's fine." Thomas didn't shake the feeling from him as he nodded and said 'thank you' again and followed John as they looked at the racks and racks of men's shirts.

The girls didn't have a problem filling a basket with outfits, saying that they could share each other's things and save money, while Thomas only picked out a bare minimum of a few jeans and some button ups. But as John tried to find a pair of shoes for the twins, he noticed Thomas' eyes lingering hotly on the shelves of books in the corner and then glancing back around him, as if to see if he was caught peeking at the novels. John finally pushed his shoulder in the direction; "Go see what you can find."

Thomas shook the gold bangs from his eyes and shrugged his shoulders in disinterest but as John gave him another eye brow cocked look, the young boy finally amended that he would go look for a picture book to read to the twins, walking slowly, secretively to the book case.

"Hey, Toni?" John called, the girl rounding through the shop and answering sweetly. "I…" He started a bit coyly with a dry laugh as George and Oliver luckily picked up matching t shirts, "I was wondering if you could kinda catch me up on everyone. I mean, I don't mind having you lot stay over until we figure this out, but I don't know any of you, other than Sherlock kept you safe and…" his pause was brief, eyes pressed with a shadow passing and he amended softly "And I feel like I should too." He watched as the twins came racing back to him and he grasped their hands and rose with a pained expression, a limp in his right leg.

"Oh, well," she began, eyes caught on the bracelets on a headless manikin, "My mother and father divorced a year or two after the twins were born. Dad couldn't keep himself of the cognac, which meant he couldn't keep his fists from the family. Mom wouldn't leave him, no matter how much I begged, no matter how often she saw Oliver and George crying their little eyes out…" Her voice was soft and still as she turned her attention from the jewelry and grabbed for Oliver and let him rest his head on her shoulder, her fingers tangled in his reddening curls.

"I finally took them and left, just out the door and never walked down the street again." And he could see the war in her as well, the hurt f leaving a mother and father, of having to raise two boys on the street. "I met Sherlock through necessity actually." Toni laughed a sweet, hollow sot of ring, "He was shaking and nervous for coke, for anything really, but when I held out my hands and said I had nothing he deduced I was a run away, I had boys to feed, rent to pay, I had to have a dealer, a pimp, someone with connections. He said he'd pay anything, any price I named for the stuff. That's how I met Sam, looking for someone who had cocaine. He took me in; let me stay at his flat with a bunch of others like me. We all pitched in the small change we had, and it worked out every month. I didn't have to worry about leaving Georgie and Ollie alone anymore, because all the girls looked after the littlest kids in turns of shifts."

Her hand stilled over the glass cases of necklaces and earrings as she avoided John's sympathetic gaze, the tone light but thin as figurine glass. "And then one afternoon there he was, all a flutter in his cloak and scarf, asking if any of us had seen a man that fit the description he had from Scotland Yard. I had tended to a man that sounded like him so I spoke to him, and he thanked me for never getting back to him about the drugs. He seemed…" the cashier interrupted and asked if she wanted a closer look at the displays, to which she politely declined. "I don't know, Sherlock just always had this God like ability about him, and all the orphans at the flat looked at him as if he hung the moon." John laughed at that. _Sherlock hanging the moon?_ He probably didn't even know it circled Earth.

"He is amazing, though not many recognize it as genius." John smiled at her in reassurance, thinking quite bitterly about Sally and Anderson and all the other idiots who scrutinized Sherlock Holmes.

Toni finally looked at him and grinned herself, her freckled cheeks lined with a gentle happiness that John hadn't seen in the years of his own youth. "His further deductions about my life seemed more like compliments. Me raising the boys myself. The love for my mother. The strength in the face of adversity. The things that I and come to hate in my life, all the stresses and heart break were seen as great accomplishes to him. He was surprised I hadn't a trace of street drugs on my hands and…" her sure eyes and simplistic remembering cracked a bit with the watering of fresh tears lining her eyes, "And he even got me a job at Mrs. Cravlan's Flower Boutique, so I wouldn't have to sell myself anymore. I didn't have to sleep with men in the shadows anymore; I didn't have to be afraid of the men anymore." Toni wiped her tears on her shoulder sleeve and hefted her brother higher on her hip.

John was struck dumb, lips slightly open as he waded through a multitude of things t say. But nothing came. This girl, no more than 19, had made sure she had a place for her brothers to sleep, food o the table, all by giving herself to the hands of the awful, sick men who roved around the dusk that fell on London. She hadn't numbed herself with drugs, hadn't sought escape in the many costly remedies n powders or bottles or needles. And Sherlock had saved her, had thanked her, saw something strong in her and made sure she knew it. It then hit him of how much he didn't know about any of them, about the years before they had met. They were locked away and untouchable now, buried in a coffin beneath a Magnolia tree. But John didn't want to miss this, the glimpse into Sherlock's younger, dark years.

It was like hearing the gospel, like finishing a painting that had been put away and forgotten after centuries of giving up.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to just throw all that on you." She smiled sheepishly, over Oliver's shoulder at John, who was still shocked into silence.

"No, I just….I don't know what to say, I mean," John swallowed and caught Darcy heading over, a grin on her face.

"Hey John, look," She twirled in a floor length dark coat, looking like a smiling, blond headed version of Sherlock. "Think Greg needs help on ay cases?" Toni hid a giggle behind her hand and both the boys began clapping their hands and trying to wiggle out of the arms around them.

John let George down softly, smirking at Darcy as she took a pip from her jacket pocket and pretended to deduce things about the manikins to the twins who cheered her on with their uncontrollable fits of laughter. "Wait, how does Darcy know Greg's first name?" He turned to Toni again as Thomas returned with an armful children's books, and a novel or two for himself.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade almost arrested her for prostitution." Came his stark reply. "Almost had her in hand cuffs by the time Sherlock walked up to her and acted as if they were friends that went waaay back, said he was meeting her for work related business and got her off with no charges." John took another look at Darcy, who was now interrogating the headless manikin with no arms and an awful lime colored pants suit on about a 'missing diamond necklace' in a shoddy accent for the twin's pleasure. "Yep." Nodded Thomas, "She went along with the whole thing and went back with him, thinking she owed him a free night for getting her out of the law's sights. Instead he brought her by Sam's place, told her she had too much going for her to entertain the scum on the streets. She performs in plays for schools and things, but works a waitressing job down at Sweet Short Cakes down the block. But she's smart, remembers things well, so Sherlock always asked her to look out for persons of interest, and her brashness has gotten her into some scuffs that Sherlock got her off of with Lestrade's help. Can't seem to get that temper controlled, especially around men, and I've never known her to be one to back down. Everything always ends in brawls with her, is constantly coming back to the flat with bruises and scrapes, never letting people know how hurt she really was." And for the flash of a moment, a vulnerable look of liquid love in Thomas' eyes as he gazed at her, and then turned around, as if denying a temptation. "She's a right criminal at times." Thomas laughed very kindly at that and John nodded, absently trying to see the blackness of a criminal behind her brave, independent grin and bright demeanor.

_'Was that the look I had when Sherlock was around?'_ John bemused "_Was I so blind to not notice the pain and hurt echoing in him, only saw the repercussions? Had I know….would it have made a difference?" _He thought as he handed the cashier the baskets of clothes and books, and smiled a bit off handedly. "Well," he turned back to them, "I'm glad you're all here now. It was lonely at Baker Street, could use some diversity."

He paid quickly and helped round them up as he walked back to the flat, head tossing back the thoughts that even when he was broken and strung out, Sherlock was still trying to save the wisps of children scurrying around the city, almost as if helping them was saving the little run away boy crying in his own soul.

**-VV-**

John thought that he could really get used to the feel of tiny fingers grabbing up at him, smiling lips wide and giggling as he fought with the twins, Oliver and George, to stop splashing the sudsy water all over the bathroom floor. The clarity of a child's eyes were awfully understanding and knowing, even if they had no ideas the wars John Watson had faced. All they knew was that this nice man was offering food and a home for a little bit, and he was patient and never yelled or cursed or threatened like all the other adults. He looked at them with something fond in his eyes and it felt wonderful to be cared for.

To John, it felt amazing to be trusted completely, to have purpose again.

"Georgie, if you throw the duck at your brother again you won't get dessert after dinner." he used his stern, officer in training voice, the one that was accompanied with a serious finger wag but a crackle of a smile on his the child just laughed and splashed at the water again, causing Oliver to yelp in delight and joy in the fun, forgetting his tears at being used for target practice.

Toni, dressed in an apron, peeked her head in and winced in understanding as John gave an exaggerated sigh and smiled with a rekindled light in his usually tired eyes.

"Darcy says the water is boiling for the noodles, I'll go ahead and put them in since playing sea Captain seems to be a full time job." she hid a lovely laugh behind her hand and tossed the soaking wet man a towel. He thanked her and tried again to move the rag behind their ears as they laughed more and wiggled away. Oliver then decided that John looked dirty enough to elicit a bath as well and as the man turned to George and began to scrub the shampoo carefully into his sparse reddish hair, Oliver dunked the floating plastic cup into the sudsy bath water, and dumped it over an unsuspecting John.

The water was warm and surprising, making him sputter and slick his calloused hands through his hair to wipe the water from his eyes.  
"Oliver!" he yelled in the din of George's laughter, Tori's frightened, chastising voice, and like a switch was flipped, Oliver shrunk back from John, as if he had transformed into a werewolf in front of his eyes, clad in matted fur and snarling teeth. But John stopped suddenly as he saw the fear flicker up dangerously in the child, the rest of the room deathly quiet now as well.

"I'm sorry for yelling," John apologized solemnly, tone so close to breaking it came out more of a whimper, moving uncomfortably in his soaking wet jeans, "but you can't do that." his voice was quite but firm, and as he reached his hand out, he expected the boy to quiver away, cry out for his sister or bolt down the hall. These children had run away from alcoholic parents, abusive families, and hurtful adults, and now that John had raised his voice, he knew he had broken whatever small trust they had placed gently in him. _'You're such an idiot, John, you'v mucked this up. You're just like all the others._' he mourned scornfully. But Oliver instead moved closer, tentatively, and grasped his impossibly small hands around John's wrist, nuzzling his head into the warm, callused palm. His little lips apologized in the oncoming sobs and it broke John's heart.

Tori watched as he stood in his dripping clothes, braced the strong, sure muscles in his arm and hoisted the toddler up, grabbing at the towel in her arms and wrapped Oliver securely in it, bringing the curled, sobbing body close to his in an remorseful embrace.

"Ollie, I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have yelled." he whispered, and rocked the little boy, as Tori helped Georgie rinse off and lifted him from the bath and dried at his curls wordlessly. _'He's not a bad guy...'_ she noticed, smiling softly at the effortless way he calmed Oliver and finally kissed his forehead as he sat him down.

She noticed how John always kneeled when talking to the smaller children, instead of towering over them like a lot of the other men had constantly done. John _meant well_, she could see it plain as a picture in him, and understood the flawless reason Sherlock had held like hell onto him.

John was patient and forgiving and kind. John held children lovingly in the same hands he handled guns with, John was making a smorgasbord of dishes for dinner because the kids couldn't decide, John who didn't mind request they asked, answering all of their questions truthfully and handed things over when they said please.

_'The only dangerous thing in his body is that heart of his...he's going to lose himself if he keeps loving everything so fully.'_ Tori mourned as she followed John into the guest room, where Sam was piling clothes.

"You didn't have to go to the Thrift Store for new clothes, we could have washed their old ones." he grumbled, folding a pair of shorts.

John shrugged, hands picking up a neat pile of an outfit. "Well these guys are cuter in new clothes. Besides," he wrestled with Oliver to get into a striped shirt, "if you lot are going to be staying here, then you'll need a little bit of a wardrobe. Thomas got a few things for you too, Mrs. Hudson will be up with you guys' laundry later." he turned to George and helped him with the mismatched socks and then looked at the mess of himself, dripping all over the carpet, soap drying in his hair. "Could you guys watch them as I change?" he asked a bit embarrassedly, and the teens nodded as he walked out, trailing puddles of water in his wake.

The moment he cleared the door, Tori turned on Sam, a fire lit in her eyes.

"Can't you just say 'thank you' and accept his help?" she hissed with a whip of attitude. "He isn't like other guys."

"How many times has that sentence got you in trouble?" he asked bitterly, drawing his shoulders back, feeling more than seeing the way she cracked a bit with the weight of the harsh statement. Her lips faulted a bit to throw back an argument, settling with a sniff of indifference. "He means well, Sam, can't you see it? Even Sherlock knew John was good people. So just play nice. He's taking care of us." Her eyes softened and she turned to the clothes and began folding, giving her shaking hands something to do before she slapped him.

Sam scoffed, face hardened with a dash of anger and a wave of sudden hate. "He's making us dinner, buying us clothes, acting all gentle! Can't you see he's just doing it so we owe him something?!" Tori froze at his implications and lowered her eyes, sadly.

"He would never hurt us like that, Sam. Just because James did-"

"Don't talk like you know what it was like!" the voice was shrill and so thunderous that it frightened a resolve into Tori, Sam advancing on her and clenching his fists into painful weapons. "Don't you ever talk about him, do you hear me?!"

The silence was blockishly hurtful, pushing and pressing into the two teenagers, almost as if they both wanted to pierce the other with their hateful glares.

Tori took a breath in the barbed air. "You know I understand what it's like to be used like that. But Sherlock wouldn't have put so much into John if he wasn't trustworthy."

She watched the emotions flash like a warning signal across his stark features, before he spoke like a whisper of death.

"Sherlock was blinded by sentiment."

"What?"

"This is John's room. You can tell by the picture of his sister on the wall-"

"Oh Sam, don't do this-" She tried to stop his tirade but Sam's lips just twisted more grotesquely as he spat his slim, clumsy observations.

"But there's dust on the head board, his bed hasn't been slept in in months-"

But Tori didn't want hear it. She hated when he got like this, like he understood the entirety of the world like Sherlock had. He might have picked up a few tricks but Sam wasn't the genius he had been. But he held onto his mentor's legacy like that.

"_He loved him_! He finally broke down and let himself give into the _weakness_! Sherlock Holmes might have missed all the signs because he_ blinded_ by him! Of course John loves him, moved into his room, sleeps in his bed! John is dangerous but you wouldn't understand. "You like any man that smiles and compliments you." Sam was ruthless in his anger now, teeth bared and the crinkles under his eyes deepening too much for his young age. "Caring is an advantage, it lures people in, and when he hurts you, you'll see." He brushed brusquely by her, slamming the door on his way out and running away from Baker Street, as if he could jump off the horizon and fall into space.

**-VV-**

Dinner, even in all its oddity of courses, had been no small tackle because, unlike Sherlock, who was never interested in consuming a thing John plated, the children ate with gusto and an unfounded love, asking for seconds and thirds, saying please and thank you over and over again as the night grew to a tired, yawning, full bellied yawn. In between drying dishes, Darcy and Tori said they could share John's old bed, Thomas confessed he felt safer on the couch, facing the door (to which John promised himself he'd find out where Thomas had adopted such paranoid behavior) and the twins could squeeze in with the girls.

"We don't mind," Toni smiled politely and shelved a plate with a clicking sound, turning to match Darcy's nod. "I'm used to bunking with the munchkins, and your bed is big enough, no need to kick you out of your own flat." With the kitchen cleaned and cleared, it almost seemed homey with the kids already in pajamas, Oliver and George yawning wide and tiredly leaning against their sisters knees, eyes half mast. John tried to say that he could sleep on the floor in the living room but the girls weren't having it.

"Go to bed." Darcy commanded, pushing at him and gesturing for the twins to follow her. "And don't worry about Sam, he disappears all the time, always turns up when he needs to." she cryptically spoke with her eyes downcast and withdrawn, heading to the bathroom to help Oliver and George brush their teeth before retiring for the night. Oliver and George both reached up on their tip toes for John and he kneeled with a bit of pain to give each a hug, ruffling their unruly curls and sending them off to Darcy as soon as he had kissed each on the forehead.

**-VV-**

The newness of having people in his flat, misfits and orphans in his flat, was still churning in him, the memory of Sebastian Moran creeping up and unsettling his stomach as he sighed and glanced back to Sherlock's bedroom. '_I'll call Mycroft tomorrow, see if I can't call in a favor. These kids can't be put in danger just because of some psycho...because of me.' _

He closed the door behind him and riffled through the closet knowingly, fingers brushing a fabric reassuringly. John was then slipping on a grey jumper, the one that had sat in Sherlock's closet long enough to absorb the faint smell of his favorite brand of cigarettes. John had always hated smoking, even before his classes in Uni that showed lungs in different, scared, blackened, decrepit stages of cancer from cigarette use, but the scent was so familiar, it was comforting, it nuzzled at a small part of him and quieted the shouting voice echoing unfathomably deep in him.

The left sleeve was charred and unraveling where a Bunsen burner had licked at John as he had leaned over to get Sherlock's attention. There was a stubborn spaghetti stain on the hem round the waistline; Sherlock had pulled him from Angelo's with sauce on his nimble fingers, leading to chasing a crook for two and a half miles. After a dunk in the Thames and the detective trying to wash it out with bleach, the sweater was a bit dappled and over all worse for the wear, soft from over washing, and almost ten years old, knitted for his acceptance into Uni by his grandmother.

He let himself curl into the cool sheets and shivered as he felt so suddenly old, as if all the children out there were his and he had raised them to what they were now. John drew a shuddering breath and clamped his eyes as shut as he could, till he saw nothing but darkness and tried to think of how he got here.

Sherlock had committed suicide, jumped and left John in the care of all these loose children, left him in a flat in the middle of crime infested London with a man eating at Angelo's in his seat and showing him a scar John knew he couldn't have stitched.

But the darkness seemed too much for him so he opened is eyes again and reminded himself not to drown in his screams tonight, not with the young twins sleeping down the hall, or the recovering prostitutes cured in warm beds out of the hands of wicked men, or poor, fearful Tomas who seemed afraid of what was lurking unseen about them all.

"_Jesus_," he hissed, deflated, as he stretched and sighed in a pained, aching way, digging the heels of his palms into his tired eyes. "What am I going to _do?"_

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**So, there you go, a little bit of filler about the children and Sherlock. Don't worry they figure into the story and help flesh out John's feelings, Sherlock's past, and play a part in Moriarty's lovely game. **

**Are ya'll ready for more? Please tell me what you think so I know if I should keep going or if I should quit and try to finish my Bio Major and quit writing...**

**Your content and tired author,**

**Castion and Clockwork**

**P.S. There's fluff, Father!John, nightmares, and Johnlock next chapter. Hope that's something to look forward too! **


	10. How Did I Make it to Here Without You?

**EDIT: I couldn't stand the way I wrote this chapter, and I apologize for how awful it is. I just looked back over it ad HAD to rewrite it. Some of it is still the same, but I've added quite a lot, about a thousand words worth. I recommend rereading, though you don't _have_ too. **

**Anyway, thank you to everyone who has enjoyed this story enough to write a review and followed it! It means a lot to me, to have you guys like this. Now go off and read my beautiful followers! And enjoy!**

**Warnings: Ummmm, none. Just nightmares, comfort, and sneaky, scheming Irene. :)**

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There was the scent of gunpowder, so thick in the air that John coughed dry and wretched as he tried to see past the dense fog of the battlefield.

_No, none of it is real. _

The blood bath was sloshed on the wet ground, painted the sands dark crimson, he stumbled over the thicket of bodies strewn amongst the carnage.

_Stop it. Stop this._

And every rotted corpse had _his_ face, _Sherlock's face_, had eyes like quicksilver, melting in the raven mop of blood drenched curls that fell over the gaunt face, wisped over his bruise highlighted cheeks.

_Wake up; don't scream, no, no no-_

And then came his heaving bitter sobs, as if they were bubbling and boiling up from a black pit carved in him, Sherlock sized, too deep to stitch, too gaping, too rotted, that nobody would touch it, would look at him, would come close in fear of catching _it._ The _blackness_. The_ sadness_.

John bolted up in bed at the whistle of a scream that lit the air, cold and terrified as it echoed alongside the slow, cautious rumble of thunder. But as he tried to level the harsh race of his lungs, John slowly swallowed and felt that his throat wasn't ragged as it usually was when his wistful mind finally let him loose from the horrifying night terrors. With a few more settling breaths, the sweat cooling on him as he drew his knees up and rested his forehead, head ducked and eyes squeezed shut as if to block out the blackened silence around him.

But then John's ears picked up the rusted squeak of door hinges down the hall way, as another bought of thunder shook the glass in the window panes. But between the squeaky floor boards and the lull of a passing storm, John heard another sound, almost too quite, almost as if he was feeling it more than listening.

_Someone was crying._

Not a second longer and John saw the door sluggishly crack open, a bunch of kinky, red curls peeking up through two tiny fists that were rubbing sleep from Oliver's eyes, followed by Toni, who was carrying George gently tucked against her in an impossibly small, quiver mess.

"John?" She whispered to the darkness of the room, the dim light from the hall not quite bright enough to show his hands fisted frightened in the sheets, the sweat beaded on his bow, or the exhausted, war carved lines of his face. "John, are you up?"

He gathered enough voice to brokenly reply after a beat, "Ya, ya, I'm here." But the dream was still fresh and tugging at him, the racket of the storm outside unnerving as John tried hard to quell the inklings of panic flaring in his chest. _'Its all fine.'_ John closed his heavy eyes and tried to ply his shaking fingers from their firm grip. He followed their jagged shadows cautiously as they crept closer, and he suppressed a flinch as the bed sank with Toni's weight on the edge, the comforter being tugged away from him a bit as Oliver clamored unceremoniously up next. John then added, a little dumbly, "Is everything ok?"

Oliver seemed to have no qualms in waking him, climbing right up next to him and rolling in the covers as Tori apologized in pained, worried whispers. "George was having a nightmare; I think the storm scared him." She confessed, petting at the young boy's mess of hair, trying to soothe him as he kept shaking. "He wanted you even after I said you'd be sleeping, I didn't want to wake you though, I'm sorry-"

But before Toni could continue her heartfelt apology, John had opened his arms in welcoming as George crawled quickly into the safety. "There, there Georgie, just a bit of noise and light, nothing to be afraid of." John whispered low and shaky, the words a balm to say aloud with a tinge of fear, and the accepting trust refreshing as George took fistfuls of John's soft night shirt and cried even harder. John held him tight against his chest and cradled the back of his head as the tiny boy let out a new wave of tears, soaking his shoulder, and John couldn't help but think of how his own tears had been just as cold the night Sherlock had jumped into oblivion. But he had no shoulder to hide into, no warm body to keep his secrets safe in. So with a deep breath, John shifted and held the boy closer still, closing his eyes and really embracing him, like he meant it, like this was the one medicine to heal a wounded soul.

Tori looked on in both wistful sympathy and motherly concern, almost guilty as she kept wringing her hands and licking nervously at her lips. As John exhaled slowly and stoked a hand through Georgie's curls, he caught her wavering gaze, his voice soft as he spoke to her. "Tori its fine, I don't mind." His thoughts nipped at him, jagged tendrils of his nightmares slicing numbly at the back of his head, the ghosts of his past haunting him cold and black as he tried to stamp them out. "I wasn't really sleeping; it's not a trouble at all." He knew she probably couldn't see his tired half smile in the dark, but she seemed to hear its honesty as she sighed and shifted more comfortably onto the bed, eyes never leaving her brothers.

Socked footsteps came padding down the hallway after a few soft minutes, Thomas' voice asking quietly as he yawned. "Is everything ok? I heard a scream and was torn between invading privacy and wars between personal demons or possibly fighting a burglar if he had somehow snuck in." Thomas rolled his shoulders, his eyes were alert and ringed in sleeplessness, tousled hair swept out of his face as he stepped forward.

"Georgie was scared is all," Darcy answered as she rounded the corner and stepped quietly into the room, a glass of ice water in her hands. She set it on the bedside table closet to John and gave a tired smile as she patted George comfortingly on the back.

Thomas stretched his arms up, popping his fingers distractedly. "Ya, the thunder woke me too." John could tell that was a lie, the teen looked like he had been up all night but he nodded along understandably, not quite wanting to confess to the fact that the strong, capable, Captain John Watson that fought crime ad killed cabbies was really a broken shadow of a Sociopathic genius, suffering from hallowed dreams of a war he quit missing when he found out that the enemy wore Westwood.

"But we should all be getting back to bed," Toni interrupted, standing as she tried to shepherd the others from the room. "John must be exhausted and just wants to be left alone-" But before she could manage another word, John shook his head, almost panicked at the thought of being left at the mercy of his demons.

"No, no, it's fine. Come on in. Please, the company is enjoyable. I don't mind at all, really." And with that thought in the air, Darcy crawled up into the bed and stretched beneath the comforter, smiling as she thanked him and commented lightly that she missed being able to have sleep overs. With a bit of hesitation Thomas looked about the room before finally sliding in next to Darcy, shuffling his body as she rolled into him and kicked playfully at him. Toni maneuvered between Darcy and Oliver; her feet tangled with Darcy's as she rolled her shoulders and finally found a comfortable place, a pair of cold toes curling at the back of her calves as she giggled and rolled over. All the movement finally died down as they found a comfortable position slotted next to each other, the picture of a white picket fence family if they had all been ripped out of their original quilts and sewed into one big one.

Georgie had tuckered himself out with crying after a few more moments, his soft, baby like snores tiredly even against John's bad shoulder, as he heard a tender sigh from Toni, as if she was thinking really hard on what to say.

"Thank you." She whispered warmly, and though John couldn't quite make out the expression on her young face, he could tell that her eye brows were drawn down in a deep sincerity. There was a breath of a pause, because the weight of those two words was phenomenally great on his chest then, making it hard to swallow as he softly tried to meet her eyes in answer. "It's just that...well, Sam is having trouble with a few things so a bunch of us had to find somewhere else to go. And then here you are, being so generous and kind to complete strangers-" Toni's vice was honeyed with a tearful gratitude that John believed he didn't deserve, because he had come home from the war older, bitter, and crestfallen. He had been changed into a better man by Sherlock Holmes. He should be the one to thank for ironing the kinks out of John Watson. "-and the twins just think the world of you." She continued, not noticing John's mental absence as she finally brought her hand up and covered his on George's back. "We were all _so alone_ and we _owe you so much_." Toni's words felt like the ax that bust the flood gate then as John took a shaky breath. But she seemed to fall asleep with that last, mumbled thought because she didn't question John's tears as he held George and let his head fall back on the headboard of the bed.

There was a calm then, with the three teenagers a bunch of arms and legs on one side, with John propped up on a pillow with one twin resting curled on his chest in deep slumber, the other snuggled into the strong warmth of his shoulder, snoring slightly. Their mixed breathing was beautifully domestic, quite, and perfectly righteous as John felt sleep start to heavily bear down on him, Toni's words echoing like bells. And whether they belonged to a funeral march or wedding, Jon wasn't sure.

Everyone was _here_, safe and sound. He could close his eyes and know that the flat wouldn't be_ empty_ when he woke.

He was surrounded by people, by little pieces of Sherlock.

_Was this home?_

**-VV-**

Sherlock woke with the scent of perfume cloudy on his senses, drawing an exasperated groan from his chapped lips as he rose on his elbows.

"Leave now."

An indigent sigh of disapproval caught his ear as the silk night gown pressed close to him, a dainty foot rubbing softly at his leg. "Oh come now Sherlock, you haven't even heard what I have to say." Irene cooed to him, her face radiant and makeup-less as she smiled.

But the detective seemed not to care as he rolled away from her, giving a well-practiced cold shoulder as he heaved a sigh and tried to muster strength to get out of bed._ 'Mycroft must have put a rather impressive dose of a tranquilizer in my late night coffee.' _He mused as the fog in his mind stagnantly sifted in the windows of his Mind Palace. He closed his eyes and tried to sweep the thick air out, with no avail. _'Damn him, I need to find John.' _

"Don't worry sweetheart, John is in safe hands. That's why I came to see you actually." Her velvety tone gave Sherlock a shiver as he whipped back around and pinned her with a heated look. "Oh, so now you'll listen." Irene huffed, "It's always about _him_ with you."

"You said you found John?" Came his wooden reply, eyes wildly focused on her as she sat up and stretched lazily, raising her arms so that the sleeves of her nightgown rode up on her deliciously curved shoulders, hair darkly loose and spilling behind her in soft waves. But Sherlock could tell this was more a display of sexual prowess, _'She's donning battle armor...'_ he observed, following closely as Irene leaned forward, eyes bright as she suddenly felt more powerful with his sights set on her, with his curiosity sparked by her. _'Oh. If I have unanswered questions, and she has answers, The Woman believes herself immune. Clever, stupid girl.'_ He narrowed his eyes in interest as she spoke.

"Yes. I got a call yesterday from one of your little," Her nose scrunched up in slight disgust, "_rats_. The Sam one. He said that they found him enjoying dinner at Angelo's with Sebastian Moran." Irene was inspecting her nails now as if to find a chip or crack in the paint stringing Sherlock on with each slow spoken word. "Are you jealous?" She asked a bit scandalized as she saw his eyes darken, his lips pulled back a bit as he heard that his John had literally sat down and had dinner with the enemy.

"And where is he _now_?" A clipped tone as Sherlock gathered himself and tried to sit up.

"Baker Street of course. Playing house with your group of_ misfits._ What did you call them?" Irene tilted her head back and laughed harshly, derisively. Her shoulders shook as she tried to stem the mirth in her joking, fingers curling against her smile as she cut her eyes questioningly at him.

Sherlock turned from her heated gaze, tongue wetting his lips as he spoke. "They're my irregulars. My network." And for the shadow of a second his voice was fragile with adoration and pride. But it quickly disappeared as he ran his fingers through the mess of his unkempt curls, eyes unclouded as he quipped. "Now get out, I have things to do." Sherlock waved his hand in dismissal and eyed the door to drive his point home. But The Woman made no move to leave as she drew up a timed eye brow, sweeping a gaze of questioning toward him. With a heavy, understanding sigh he faced her, mouth drawn in a clearly angry line. "You want payment for finding him. How dull, he wasn't even missing technically. Just a bit _misplaced_." Sherlock smirked, almost affectionately at the thought.

"Yes, _well_, I could have kept this little tidbit from you. And just let you go storming Moran's flat, all anger and jealousy, so _blinded_ with your emotions that you forget that this more than another little game and kill him for information he _doesn't have_." Sherlock rolled his eyes at the implication that he'd have ruined the entire plan of Moriarty's capture by murdering Moran in a fit of rage. But a small, cleverly quite part of his conscious sinfully rolled the idea around and grinned at the idea of punishing Moran for the little dinner date with his John.

_'Stop it.'_ he scolded his inner psychopath. _'We'll be having none of that._ _Focus.'_

"Pray tell," Sherlock spoke as he cast a light look over his shoulder, head bent a bit shyly, all an act of course. "What do I owe you for finding him?" He appeared tamed, drowsy, still amicable with the drug slumping his shoulders, grey eyes swimming in haze, his usual sharp edges smoothed and lovingly rounded as Irene approached him softly on her tip toes.

"Oh nothing much." She smiled sweetly, a manicured hand tracing the wire of his shoulder, cupping his cheek with a tender, lover's warmth. He turned his gaze to her, unfaltering as he read lust and ambition in her posture, could almost_ taste_ her request as she circled him slowly and pressed her warm body flush to his. Irene felt soft beneath her gown, all curves and sweetness as she drew up against him, lips ghosting his. "_Please_." Came her pleaded reply, before her fingers felt tears on his cheeks as he pulled gently away from her.

Sherlock's hands had grabbed her wrists and turned his face from her, eyes closed against her liquid adoration. "Don't ask of me anything I couldn't give John." He whispered low and burdened, suddenly aware that Irene was playing in Jim's game, making the rules as she flitted between both parties in favor for what suited her that particular day.

_What if she was playing Jim and him both? What was she getting out of any of this? What if somehow James Moriarty had given her a better offer and she took his side? She was as dangerous as Jim was at this point, her information and uncanny aloofness making her a formidable pawn. _

But could Sherlock gamble _this one thing_?

Could he give _it_ to her, in exchange for _John's complete safety_?

He felt his breath hitch irrevocably soft as she sighed against him and caught her hand in his hair, her eyes drawn to the subtle was his dam's apple bobbed slightly as he swallowed, drowning in thoughts, someone in his mind palace turning on the fire alarms in retaliation.

Sherlock was suddenly so terrified, cresting on the wave of heart break, embarrassment, and ignorance. He couldn't ride this monsoon, couldn't fake himself through this act as he felt something in his brain shrivel and receded back into the cool shadows, as if his Mind Palace was drawing the curtains against a bright sun, locking doors and sweeping dust under the rugs to hide everything in him.

But the only thing Irene answered with was the emotionless, unrelenting question, not a single drop of guilt as she pressed their foreheads together, almost as if to read what was going on behind his fair and fading façade. "_Please?"_

* * *

**Ooooh. Our dearest Sherlock is caught with a choice. Give this_ one thing(And what is it?) _to Irene for collateral and a get out of jail free card, maybe even win her on the good side for good or...or what really? Have this woman possibly causing John harm, giving into Jim's plan, lying about everything. Can she be trusted? Will Sherlock make this sacrifice? **

**More to come next time my lovelies! **

**Your thankful writer,**

**Castion and Clockwork**

**P.S. I would love feedback on what you guys want to see and what you want to happen! This story is built around my readers, so speak up! Also I want to make sure you guys like this. If I'm doing something wrong, tell me and Ill fix it. What's the use if I write and no one likes it? I write for ya'll, so take your power and wield it! :D **


	11. Gods Do Bleed, I Can Breath Easy Tonight

**(I rewrote the last chapter, so go back and reread it before this one. :) )**

**Oh how wonderful! :) Another new chapter! **

**I also want to address the fact that the reason that it takes so long for this story to get out is because I don't really have the plot fleshed out in a few places. I have solid ideas and plot devices but getting there is sometimes a small problem. And the relationships in this are terribly complicated, so I hate to just rush these things and miss out on the depth. So my deepest apologies. **

**But I would love to hear you guys' ideas on what should happen. Because I'm open to almost anything, and would love to get chapter prompts. It would probably get the chapters out faster if I have an idea and premise. :) So PM or review your ideas!**

**Warnings: Ooh, actually No! This is a pretty clean chapter. But don't worry angst fans, because its about to get dark in here...**

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They say a single room can tell volumes about a person.

But that could all be bullshit, because Sebastian never got a damn answer about James Moriarty when he looked at the consulting criminal's living space.

The furniture was expensive and lavishly beautiful, mostly silvers and marbled colors, with undertones of grey and charcoal. Impersonal almost, Moran had mused, if not for the photographs adorning the room. The pictures on the walls were of family members Sebastian had never met or even heard about, their eyes empty, faces full of smiles. Many of them were of different people, old couples, young children, parties, gatherings. But there was only one woman who was in almost every single one, with the same smile lines Jim has when he is truly delighted in something, her hair as dark as her eyes, and Sebastian knew it had to be Jim's mother. But there were no pictures of a younger James Moriarty, and all the other people in the photos seemed to be no one in particular.

He stared for an extra moment or two, glaring stiffly at the wall of frames and then looked away, knowing that he wasn't Jim's genius, he couldn't tell their patters and routines of daily life written in their wrinkles, or their habits in their postures.

He wasn't Sherlock Holmes.

But Sebastian _could_ tell that Jim wasn't feeling well, and as he dared a step closer to his boss's slumped, still form, he could tell that something wasn't right.

"Sebastian, don't you have a _doctor's appointment_?" The cold voice churned his empty stomach as his hand rested on Jim's shoulder, kneeling under the weight as Jim pinned him with a disarming look.

He noticed that Jim had been running his hands through his hair, scuffing the fringe up just a bit, making him look a little younger in his impeccable suit and tie. 'He hasn't slept in days. Must be about-' He stopped mid thought and shook his head. "John's already called Mycroft, and has surrounded himself with those brats Sherlock had working for him round the city. I'll have to lay low for a bit maybe we could-" But Jim didn't let him finish as Moriarty jerked away, teeth bared as he rested his elbows on the desk, hands in his hair again.

"I want him _now_, Sebastian, what part of that do you not understand?"

Some awful, scathing emotion boiled in Moran as he stood, eye brows creased angrily, fists braced on the desk predatorily as he looked down at his boss. "_I'm sorry_ that I'm not quite sharp enough to avoid the _entire fucking British Government_, who _you _pissed off might I remind you!"

"Whom." Jim corrected flawlessly in his pent up anger, or at least Sebastian had guessed was anger, because Jim had that crease where his right eye brow dented his forehead, which usually meant that someone was one snap of the fingers away from an acid bath or a sudden dismemberment. "And quit with that language, you know how I hate when you use that barrack's mouth." He commented offhandedly, releasing a bored sigh and leaning back in his chair, deflated almost as if Sebastian had popped a hole in his thought process. His eyes closed for a second, then reopened with the same, vacantly wistful gaze that the woman in the pictures had, as if Jim was brooding softly over something, playing the scenarios in his mind and seeing that none of them were going to end his way. But he didn't make a sound as he straightened his posture, and inhaled deep and long one more time.

"Jim?" Moran questioned, almost giving up his ruffled mood as he watched his boss deduce him with those diamond rough eyes sharply taking in the angles of his jaw **_(Exactly two levels from pissed off),_**scanning his creased clothes _**(Its laundry day),**_the tension in his neck and shoulders **_(Has been scoping out the target, but hasn't, no, _****_can't_****_ take the shot yet),_** the menial tremor in his fingers**_ (?)._**

He suddenly wondered in a breath taking, wicked slip of rumor, if Jim could read the emotions in his eyes, maybe could recite his thoughts to him as if lines out of a fairy tale.

If he could, he never told Moran.

Never acted on it.

"You are ordered to quit seeing _the woman_." Was all he said acridly and Sebastian had to force himself from rolling his eyes. "_Irene Adler_ is no longer an accomplice, understood?" Jim didn't turn his face to look up at him, only flicking his irises up to watch as Moran gave a final, small nod of recognition. There was a compelling, wistful moment of uneasiness that welled up then, like ice water filling a bath tub to the rim.

"I will always be here, Boss." Was all he said, though an entire book of words came rushing to him then, and with a tender hand on his shoulder, Sebastian hoped that Jim was clever enough to see love, adoration, something, _anything_ in his eyes.

But there was no reassurance, no answer to the sworn testament. Just a pair of eyes trapping the ex-soldier for a brief second and flitting back down at the papers scattered in front of him. "Jim." He tried to pull his attention back, but was disdainfully ignored.

He had been given orders, and as a soldier should have left to do his duty. He was expected to let his Boss sit in his privy room and mind his own business (he had quite a lot of it too), but he couldn't just let the greatest man in all of London, the dark angel that had dragged him from the dregs of society, sit and destroy himself silently. Because that's how James Moriarty worked, just like the woman in the pictures.

Sat with a smile and a broken soul no one cared to peel back and comfort.

"I told you to leave me _alone_." He whispered with such a dark, demented dare that Moran fought not recoil back and rethink all his life choices. Jim had given him enough chances to leave the room without a missing limb, but Sebastian felt oddly auspicious today, and pressed irrevocably forward.

"Why won't you let me help you?" When had his voice sounded so gruff, dangerously on the edge of some primal feeling? And to be honest, Moran wasn't sure what he was doing as he pulled his hands from Jim's shoulders and clasped them around his bare neck, thumbs pressed up into his windpipe, feeling his slow pulse begin to pound, feeling Jim swallow, as if to show Sebastian the amount of power he held at this moment.

'I could kill him right now.' Sebastian's brain began to spiral into smoke. 'He is human. He is just like the rest of us. I could break his neck and he'd really be dead.' The fleeting, macabre thought shattered everything in him then. His head was swimming in a dense, choking fog as he slipped his fingers up to cradle Moriarty's head, thumbs still pressing softly against the tin, fragile windpipe, and he wondered what Jim felt, wondered if he was fighting the lust in him like Moran was, wondered if his eyes were as clouded as his mind as he felt his trembling finger tips brush the strands of his hair, closed them a bit tighter before he let go completely, and just stared at the debauched Jim.

He finally noticed that his boss's first few shirt buttons were undone, hair mussed, a soft red flushing his neck to the tips of his ears, while Jim licked his lips slowly and finally cocked a smooth eye brow at Sebastian.

_'He knows…'_ Sebastian surmised, almost terrified as he watched for Jim to react. To yell at him, to threaten him, to break the stone faced façade he had adopted after his _'suicide'_. Old Jim would have laughed out loud in a _'You normal people are __soo__ adorable' _way, maybe even flirted back in a sagacious, perceptive manner, but New Jim just sat there and studied him, before a slow, almost genuine, smile dented his laugh lines.

"How _fascinating_." His oily, seductively fallen voice stated. Jim reached a hand out to Sebastian as if he saw he was drowning and needed to be anchored by a constant force. "When our dear Johnny boy is in danger, his hands go completely still." Moran swallowed difficultly around the thickness behind his chest as Jim's cold, clever fingers found his own rough ones, his ink stained thumb pressing deeply into the flesh of Sebastian's palm. "But yours," he tugged the hand up to his lips and kissed the rugged, scarred knuckles with dry lips, eyes down cast as he continued in a low, addled murmur. "Yours get fidgety. Trigger happy."

Those dark, emotion blown irises shot through Sebastian as his boss brought his hand again to his neck and looked up, unbidden, wholly wondering and gentle suddenly, and Sebastian tried to breath the best he could as he again felt the intentional swallow as Jim coaxed at him with that tampered, vexing expression. "Nervous?" Jim asked thickly, and Moran shook his head softly, speechless with his new power stance.

"_I trust you, Bastian_." Was all he countered weakly then, and before Moran sank down for their first kiss, all he could wonder was how far he was willing to go in order to keep that honor?

* * *

**I have this head cannon that Sebastian is constantly warring between the little piece of his conscious that is left and the need to please someone, who in this case is Jim Moriarty. I also adore the thought that Sebastian and Jim are still on two completely different levels of** **intelligence, with poor Sebby second guessing himself because he's always built Jim up to be this figment, untouchable GOD, so when he finally gets to see vulnerable Jim its unsettling, almost shattering his reality. **

**In return, Jim is constantly being proven wrong with Sebastian's undying loyalty for little in return. Its odd to him, and makes him press at the relationship like a fresh bruise, until finally all of this uncertainty bleeds out and the two of them stumble into****_ this._**

**Whatever the hell "****_this_****" is. **

**Hahaha, its late, I have to go to bed. **

**What do you guys want to see next? Mycroft? Sherlock? Irene? Greg maybe? More John and Company? **

**Review and OM my pretty darlings!**

**-Your loyal writer,**

**Castion and Clockwork. **


	12. Home will always be a Holmes

**Oh oh oh. You guys are to good to me. :) So many views and followers, I want to thank all of you! I would love to hear a review or two about what you what to see in the story as well! Communication is key. :)**

**Warnings: NONE! Woah, wait, how did that happen? Hmmm...I must be saving up all the warnings for the next few chapters...there's about to be a big emotional fall out...**

* * *

Mycroft pulled his lips into a slightly gentle smile, its pinched edges and his dark eyes deceiving its faux geniality. John might not be able to tell the difference between a hundred types of tobacco ash or notice the state of a marriage by the wedding ring, but he almost made an art of discerning the moods and expressions of the Holmes brothers.

And for that he was proud.

_'Not that it matters.'_ John heaved a sigh as he watched Tori nervously tip the tea kettle and fill the two lone cups on the table_. 'I could read them like books but that doesn't mean I can change the way they decide it all ends. I just have to ride the adventure and hope…' _the idea faded a bit bitterly as Mycroft shifted stiffly in Sherlock's chair, the leather squeaking beneath his soft weight as he dutifully picked up his saucer and cup, (the good china Mrs. Hudson had given John and Sherlock when they first moved in as a flat warming gift), and retrained his smile at John.

"Well Doctor, you have quite the little _gathering._ It seems my brother may have rubbed off on you when it comes to taking in _needy things_." And even though Mycroft sat in Sherlock's chair with his back straight, legs crossed poshly at the knee and face a blank, somewhat drawn in expression, John knew he was speaking fondly on the children that were huddled on the couch, each of them eyeing the man, the entire British government, with highly different expressions. Darcy appeared utterly indifferent, if not a bit tense with Mycroft's presence, making a habit of picking at the chipping nail polish on her fingers as Thomas scrutinized every slight shift the man in the suit made. Tori was still flitting about the small living space, trying to keep everyone's tea cups piping hot and topped off, crumpets on the plates, and trying to stop the twins from throwing them like grenades every time Mycroft dipped his head in that slightly derogative, but wholly disarming, eye brow raise.

All the while, the elder Holmes just sipped his tea undisturbed by the extra attention, eyes never leaving John, and re-crossed his legs as he leaned back a bit more comfortably. The twins squirmed in their seats and Thomas leaned forward with his elbow on his knees, ready to pounce.

John almost chuckled into his steaming cup and eyed the army of children with a disapproving, half smile._ 'I wonder if Sherlock trained them to attack on cue.'_

"I was hoping that we'd be able to speak about these matters somewhere…." Mycroft paused and finally gave a glance to the couch, "A little more _private_." John gave another sigh, this one a bit more winded as the weight of the situation began to comb his nerves the wrong way and he finally motioned to his brood with his open hand.

"Up you monsters go, I have grown up things to talk about." He stood up and waved his hands toward the door as if the children would simply be swept out without a fight.

But these were partially Sherlock raised children.

They'd defy God trying to have the last word.

Darcy locked eyes with John and set her hands like stone on her hips, popping one out in a typical teenage girl fashion, not moving as he accepted her challenge. "Tori and I are adults; we should be able to stay." But Tori was already collecting the twins in her arms and whispering in Thomas' ear, her eyes catching John and Darcy's little standoff as she tried to balance George on her hip, Oliver reaching for Thomas and fussing.

John shook his head, squaring his shoulders military like as he answered. "No Darcy, this is something completely different, I need to talk to Mycroft alone."

"Like hell am I going to let you alone with the likes of _him_! He'll _kidnap_ you again!" She accused, jabbing a finger at the man in question. But Mycroft didn't so much as flinch, just smiled like a smarmy ponce.

Thomas noticed Darcy was about to go into defiance mode, a phase she wasn't easily shaken from if she reached her full potential, and averted her attention by sweeping up a crying Oliver and handing him effortlessly to her. "Darcy, leave it, I know John can handle the British Government. He once stormed Afghanistan, remember?" He coaxed as he passed them, tossing a knowing sneer at John as he pulled at her hand and finally began to drag her toward the stair case, her echoed answer of _"That wasn't just him!"_ echoing up before the door shut with a heavy wooden sound, and again Baker Street was flooded as silence tried to fill the void.

John couldn't quite keep the smile from lining his face as he sat back down and regarded Mycroft, attention completely on him as the serious tone of their conversation began to seep into the cracks the children had left.

With a thoughtless gesture to the door John broke Mycroft's quite musing. "They really grow on you after a while." He tried to explain fondly as Mycroft nodded in sarcasm.

"Yes, well, then it comes to bare that you will have to take them when I relocate you." The elder Holmes occupied himself with inspecting his pocket watch as John choked on his sip of tea, the soldier's eyes growing a bit panicked as he set his cup down completely and drew forward his chair.

"Wait, what do you mean _relocate_? Like, leave Baker Street?" He couldn't bare the solemn way in which Mycroft nodded in answer, nor was he comforted by the sudden indifference the man was showing as he talked about uprooting John and his makeshift peace.

"Mrs. Hudson will be sent to the country to live with her sister and you and your gaggle will be put under the strictest security. It seems our Coronal has been watching you for quite some time and we have an idea that he is waiting for orders to strike any moment. No doubt that your little lunch with him was a failed first attempt. We have to be careful from now on."

John watched as Mycroft's mouth formed the words and his eyes read them but his mind couldn't quite stomach the first thought. _'Leave Baker Street? For good? For how long? Until when? What do I do next?'_ It was just now that John was feeling eternity pull and nag at him like a cutting winter's wind.

Since Sherlock's death, he had been stumbling through the steps of recovering, keeping a sort of schedule, the void eating at him. Nightmares, panic attacks, just like after the war. But then there were the Irregulars, in just a few days the children gave him the acceptance, the channel in which to pour all of his desires for taking care of something that needed him, to be useful again.

_'And now what? Pick up and run from a criminal all my life? Never leave the safe guarded house Mycroft picked out?'_

John began to feel ensnared, began to feel the roiling sickness blacken and churn in his stomach as he pressed his palms to his eyes and leaned forward. He felt a hand on his shoulder but he brushed the frigid comfort off as he spoke, interrupting Mycroft's piss poor attempt at security.

"I don't want to leave." He stated as strongly as he could, voice wavering a bit as he shook his head and tried to recount his breathing techniques. The room was spiraling, his vision fuzzy at the edges as if he was about to slip into a nightmare. "_I don't_-"

"What? Don't want to stay alive? Want to follow my brother to the grave at the threat of a gunman? _Please John_; there is only enough room for one martyr in this family." And the bite in Mycroft's tone hauled John out of his oncoming attack and forced him to look the man in the eye. He was standing over John's curled form with that condescending skirmish expression wincing on his face; almost as if he wanted to shake his head at the childishness of it all, but was afraid he might shake the stern façade off his features.

They simply looked at one another, and John wondered what Mycroft read in his inspection. And then it hit him.

Mycroft had just called him _family._

"Sherlock might have left you, but at least let it be in my care for a little bit. At least until I tag this dangerous man." Mycroft swallowed dryly, taping his silver tipped umbrella as he walked past John, letting the man's head fall back into his hands, defeated. "There will be a car to pick you up in the next hour. Please have your litter of pups ready as well." He commented snidely, but John didn't seem to notice, only breathing in deeply and holding it for a good long while, before letting it all out in a half shuddering groan.

"Can I at least know where I'll be staying?" He asked softly, raising his head and turning to look back at Mycroft, who had drew up an eye brow at him in the universal '_You don't already know?,_' Holmes' look.

"Why my dear Doctor, at Holmes Manor of course."

* * *

**Woah, wait, Mycroft! How can John go to the manor when Sherlock is staying there and Irene seems to have keys to the place? **

**...Almost like you're planning something...**

**Hey there fans! I know you all must be on the edges of your seats for the Sherlock/John reunion. :) No worries, its next. **

**But I want to know what you guys want the reaction to be. Should it be sad, dangerous, angry? What do you want John to do? Hit him? Kiss him? A good rough shag? Not speak to him?**

**Come on! I want to write just what ya'll want to see. So comment and leave you're vote! **

**You're loyal and avid writer,**

**Castion-and-Clockwork**


	13. Mourn the Living, Haunt the Dead

**Oh my dearheart's, I can't believe I've kept you waiting for so long! I'm not going to lie, it's beacause I've drifted over to Star Trek's fandom (TOS mainly) and I apologize for that!**

**But I'm back to writing Johnlock, don't worry, I'm going to finish this story one day. We still have a while to go. :) **

**Warnings: No, none here I don't think. :) Just some angst and the meeting. **

* * *

The move was easy, or at least as easy as any other massive upheaval could possibly be, John mused as he made his way through the halls of Holmes Manor, feeling like he was a trout on dry sand, floundering about, gasping for air in the new environment. He clutched Oliver's hand a little bit tighter as they passed a row of paintings, each decked in a beautiful mahogany frame, their faces all vested with stony features that were clearly Holmes' traits. The sharp, high cheek bones, the deep, dark eyes set behind sleek eyebrows, and an intelligent sheen to their stark body language.

At the end of the hall was a set of heavy double doors with gold knobs, a sweet looking maid standing on either side as the horde of children approached with John ahead of them, Mycroft standing with his head held high as he made a gesture with his hands and the two women opened the doors simultaneously.

Both Toni and Darcy gasped in unison as they saw what was inside.

"Oh Mycroft, this…." John paused, his lips drawing down in light apprehension as he turned to pin the man in question with a stern look. "This is too much." But he was answered with just a slight eyebrow lift.

"The children seem to enjoy it." Mycroft gestured to the grand room which span out in a circular arc, with six beds facing the doors. Each mattress was stuffed with goose down and draped in hand sewn quilts, cotton canopies tied up with ribbons matching each duvet. Oliver and George were testing the springs as they bounced and giggled on one bed, Darcy seeming to make a snow angel on hers as she rolled up in the soft covers. Thomas was too busy putting his clothes away in the drawers of an old chest, smiling to himself as he told Darcy to save the bed beside hers. But John was still lingering in the doorway, listing from side to side on his aching leg as he turned his head back to Mycroft. "Is it not to your liking?" The Holmes questioned, though he looked doubtful about the inquiry.

A pause for the tone to register before John answered in his soft, confused way. "Oh ya, no, it's great, I just thought…..I don't know what I was thinking, I wasn't sure what to expect." It was a partial lie, because John knew Mycroft was too posh and meticulous to half do _anything_, but he felt a sort of awkward embarrassment creeping up on him in heated waves as he saw how happy the children were in their new abode. The room and the extravagant meals they were no doubt going to receive were going to make all of John's previous parenting look shoddy.

Almost made him rethink taking them in at all.

_'I couldn't even take care of myself_.' He lamented as he remembered that he had missed his therapy appointment and had stopped going to the group with Mary. He remembered how cramped they had all been, stuffed in his bed, standing to eat meals in the small kitchenette, wearing old hand-me-downs and thrift store clothes.

Thinking back on 221B he was almost ashamed to be in this house at all. He felt _small_. He felt _out of place. 'Just like when I came back from Afghanistan.'_

"Feel free to take any of the free rooms on this hall, John. My quarters are in the West Wing, the main kitchen is in the back." Mycroft's voice was a vague blur in the back ground of John's suddenly pained mind.

_'How did Sherlock go from fine prince on the estate to shacking up with me in that old flat?'_ John found himself catching a sigh in his throat as Mycroft tapped his umbrella, clearly knowing his he being ignored. "My brother wanted the best for you, so please, as the saying goes, _'Make yourself at home.'_" He then pulled a gold chain from his coat and made a sort of sour face at the pocket watch on the end. "Oh dear, I'm afraid I have to excuse myself." Was his hurried statement as he turned on heel and retreated with a brusque, tight smile, the kind John remembered he would give Sherlock after a long case. "The house is yours to roam." He paused then, whirling half way to peer at John a bit darkly. "Though I may warn you, this house does seem to have a sort of…..presence about it." Was all the cryptic answer he'd give, it seemed.

Thomas cracked his knuckles leisurely, startling John as the soldier wondered how long the teen had been there, head cocked to the side. "Wait, like ghosts?" Thomas asked with a curious look.

And to John's surprise Mycroft, one of the most logical and sophisticated men the good doctor had ever met, actually seemed to consider the thought, turning it over in his head as his lips twisted a bit, dimpling one of his cheeks. "Something like that, I suppose."

But that was all, because he then marched down the hall, his phone flourished out of his coat pocket as he began to speak in rapid French, voice growing quite as his form disappeared around the corner.

**-VV-**

The grandfather clock was harshly truthful and vengeful as it rang twelve long, shimmer of deep tolls in the hall way, echoing against John's headache as he began to rethink his room choice. The window to his right was letting in an obscene amount of moon light, casting long sorrowful shadows in the corners, the linens of the bed were thick and suffocating, and carpet was so thick that it hid the underside of the door, making it to where he couldn't tell when the hall light came on.

_What if the children need me? Will I be able to hear them get up?_

He had made sure to tuck them all in and tell them he was just down the hall if they needed anything, but now he regretted not taking the room right next to theirs.

_Because there was a sniper on the loose. A sniper who had a grudge a mile deep, who had gotten so close to him, so close to ending everything._

But John took in a slow breath and kept Mycroft's promise circling around his worries.

"No one can hurt you here. I won't allow it." And though the elder Holmes hadn't ate dinner with them, or even wished them good night, John felt safer here already, with how many hands helped around the house with bright smiles and their constant presence. The maids all kept candies in their apron pockets to give to the children, the gardener, a middle aged man named Joseph, brought fresh, beautiful center pieces of flowers for all the rooms, and one of the cleaning boys showed Tori the magnificent library. But John couldn't shake his raised heckles of the foreboding feeling that kept prickling at his frayed nerves. Almost like a storm was coming and the barometric pressure was opening his old, tender wounds.

_'I need a walk.' _He shuffled achingly from his smothering quilt and limped pitifully to the door, gritting his teeth as he cursed his leg and fought to quell the wave of uselessness that was swelling in his belly. _'Just a quick look at the children to make sure they're ok and I'll sleep.'_ He coerced himself, though his exhausted body fought against it.

**-VV-**

The hall way was narrow and brightened only by the wisps of moonlight caught from the open bay windows, the scrim of the curtains billowing with a night breeze, and suddenly John felt like he was dreaming, like the footsteps of the stranger slowing to a halt before him on the wood floors were echoing only in his empty mind.

The figure stopped and stared at him, petrified, still as a statue waiting to be carved into movement, and John's soldier senses could tell that the shadow was torn between fleeing and fighting. They both took a breath, and there was complete, unbreakable silence and stark stillness in the hallway, as if neither of them of them could bear to shatter this fragile, trance like reality.

And John could read the multitude of words waiting on those softly parted lips, the man's expression vacantly resonating emotions John thought he would never see on this ghost's face.

On _Sherlock's_ face.

_Longing in the dark deceptive depths of his eyes, like a swirl of grey smoke from a smoldering flame_

_Adoration buried deep in the way his lips barely parted, quivering to smirk or smile but still a vacant line_

_Guilt as black as funeral clothes, contorting the face, stirring the sharp angles of him to fade and wither_

_Fear, my God there was fear in the twists and tendrils of his eye brows, raised for a faintly surprised moment before clarity came drenching over him like cold acid, like the ghost was seeing a ghost._

_Or finally noticing the living._

All these spirits warred beautifully in the figure's eyes and John would be lying if he said he wasn't horrified, absolutely scared stiff as he watched the memory of the man glint his gaze softly across him, deducing flawlessly no doubt, just like always.

John wanted to reach out, open his mouth and ask_, no, demand_, a steady string of a million questions, but as he shook his head slowly, hands pressed tightly to his closed eyes for just a second to regain his senses, John looked back at the end of the hallway and found it-

_Empty._

Swallowing hard, he pulled his head high and dropped his chin to his chest, a stuttering breath gagging him as he shook the memories from his mind, tried to wretch away the ghosts of his past, the burn in his throat making him tense and sick again as he made his way back to his rooms.

And with a wistful, liquid expression, Sherlock secretly watched his doctor's retreat, couldn't look away from the white flag in his flat mate's eyes, choked on his own sadness as he peered from the corner of the hall and let his brain accuse him with its terrible, bitter deductions.

_Alone, apparent by the harsh, jagged echoes of his door shutting in the complete silence _

_Broken, like a cracked plate may be broken but still usable, still able to be kept and barely functioning._

_Reminded as he felt his leg stiffen and twinge as he tried to stretch out on the bed, tossing and turning in order to keep his mind from conjuring up more thoughts of war and detectives and the pitch black streets of London_

_And scared. Scared that he was forever going to be sick in the mind because of the deliciously curious man who had been kind enough to let him into this madness._

* * *

**I know, I know, I'm awful. **

**On this note, I want to hear whether you guys like this and what's going on or if you have other ideas for this. :) Don't worry, these past few chapters have been transitions to the BIG scheme of things. Ya, ya'll better get a flashlight because its about to get dark dark dark in this fic.**

**And on another note, would any of ya'll be interested in a Star Trek fic if I started one? I'm thinking either TOS or the shiny new Root-boot they just did, because I'm a huuge Jim/Spock junkie now. XD**

**I'll shut up now, lol. Comment and review, you beautiful people. I can't wait to hear wht you guys think. **

**Your loyal author,**

**Castion and Clockwork**


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